Ice in the Bedroom by P. G. Wodehouse Read Free Book Online Page A

on Saturday they had driven off in the car with the Claines Hall butler staring after them like a butler who is at a loss to understand, and here it was only Sunday morning and they had been established at Castlewood some twenty-four hours. Leila Yorke was a woman who believed in doing it now, and though Sally was extremely fond of her, there were moments when she found herself wishing that she would less often model her behaviour on that of those American hurricanes which become so impulsive on arriving at Cape Hatteras.
    As she sat trying to relax, the front door bell rang. She went to answer it, and found on the step a venerable figure almost completely concealed behind a long white beard. He was carrying a large suitcase and a bundle of papers, and she wondered for a moment if he had come to stay.
    'Good morning,' said this bearded pard.
    'Good morning,' said Sally.
    'My name is Cornelius. Can I see Miss Yorke?'
    'She's in bed.'
    'Not ill?' said Mr. Cornelius, blenching.
    'Oh, no, just having breakfast.'
    'And thinking lovely thoughts,' said Mr. Cornelius, reassured. 'Does she keep a pad and pencil by her bedside?'
    'Not that I know of.'
    'She should. The lightest of her meditations ought to be preserved. I have thirty-two of her books here,' said Mr. Cornelius, indicating the suitcase. 'I was hoping that she would autograph them.'
    'I'm sure she will. If you will leave them…'
    Thank you, Miss - '
    'Foster. I'm Miss Yorke's secretary.'
    'What a privilege!'
    'Yes.'
    'She must be a delightful woman.'
    'Yes, very.'
    'Her books have always been an inspiration to me, and not only to me but to the little literary society we have here which meets every second Thursday. I was wondering if Miss Yorke could be persuaded to come and talk to us this week.'
    'I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think she would be able to manage it. She's just planning out a new novel, and of course that takes up all her time.'
    'I quite understand. Then I will just leave the Sunday papers for her. I thought she might care to see them.'
    'How awfully kind of you, Mr. Cornelius. I know she'll want the Sunday papers.'
    'They are rather difficult to obtain in Valley Fields. They are not delivered, and one has to go to a tobacconist's near the station. I always get Mr. Widgeon's for him. He lives at Peacehaven next door, and one likes to be neighbourly. Good-bye, Miss Foster,' said Mr. Cornelius, and with a courtly waggle of his beard melted away.
    His parting words had made Sally jump. For an instant she had thought she had heard him say 'Mr. Widgeon'. Then she knew that she must have been mistaken. Coincidences are all very well - in her novels Leila Yorke went in for them rather largely - but there is a limit. It was absurd to suppose that by pure accident she had come to live next door to the man she had resolved never to see again. A simple explanation suggested itself. Owing to his obiter dicta having to be filtered through a zareba of white hair, it was not always easy to catch exactly what Mr. Cornelius said. No doubt the name had been Williams or Wilson or possibly Wigham. It was with restored equanimity that she started to go and see how Miss Yorke was getting on with her breakfast, and met her coming down the stairs in a pink dressing gown.
    There was a frown on Leila Yorke's brow, as if she had temporarily suspended the thinking of lovely thoughts and had turned to others of an inferior grade.
    'You look peeved,' said Sally, noting this.
    Tm feeling peeved,' said Miss Yorke. 'What was that bell I heard?'
    'That was the County starting to call. A Mr. Cornelius. I don't know who he is.'
    'He's the house agent. Keeps rabbits.'
    'Oh, does he? Well, he likes to be neighbourly, so he brought you the Sunday papers.'
    'Bless him. Just what I wanted.'
    'And thirty-two of your books, to be autographed.'
    'Curse him. May his rabbits get myx-whatever-it-is.'
    ‘And he wants you to give a little talk to his literary society which meets every second