II + 

For ten days Stephen heard nothing more of Brockett; then he rang up to announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat that very same evening. + 

“You’ll get awfully little to eat,” warned Stephen, who was tired to death and who did not want him. + 

“Oh, all right, I’ll bring some dinner along,” he said blithely, and with that he hung up the receiver. + 

At a quarter-past eight he arrived, late for dinner and loaded like a pack-mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he had spoilt his new reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had oozed through a box containing the lobster salad. + 

He thrust the box into Stephen’s hands. “Here, you take it⁠—it’s dripping. Can I have a wash rag?” But after a moment he forgot the new gloves. “I’ve raided Fortnum and Mason⁠—such fun⁠—I do love eating things out of cardboard boxes. Hallo, Puddle darling! I sent you a plant. Did you get it? A nice little plant with brown bobbles. It smells good, and it’s got a ridiculous name like an old Italian dowager or something. Wait a minute⁠—what’s it called? Oh, yes, a baronia⁠—it’s so humble to have such a pompous name! Stephen, do be careful⁠—don’t rock the lobster about like that. I told you the thing was dripping!” + 

He dumped his parcels on to the hall table. + 

“I’ll take them along to the kitchen,” smiled Puddle. + 

“No, I will,” said Brockett, collecting them again, “I’ll do the whole thing; you leave it to me. I adore other people’s kitchens.” + 

He was in his most foolish and tiresome mood⁠—the mood when his white hands made odd little gestures, when his laugh was too high and his movements too small for the size of his broad-shouldered, rather gaunt body. Stephen had grown to dread him in this mood; there was something almost aggressive about it; it would seem to her that he thrust it upon her, showing off like a child at a Christmas party. + 

She said sharply: “If you’ll wait, I’ll ring for the maid.” But Brockett had already invaded the kitchen. + 

She followed, to find the cook looking offended. + 

“I want lots and lots of dishes,” he announced. Then unfortunately he happened to notice the parlourmaid’s washing, just back from the laundry. + 

“Brockett, what on earth are you doing?” + 

He had put on the girl’s ornate frilled cap, and was busily tying on her small apron. He paused for a moment. “How do I look? What a perfect duck of an apron!” + 

The parlourmaid giggled and Stephen laughed. That was the worst of Jonathan Brockett, he could make you laugh in spite of yourself⁠—when you most disapproved you found yourself laughing. + 

The food he had brought was the oddest assortment: lobster, caramels, pâté de foies gras, olives, a tin of rich-mixed biscuits and a Camembert cheese that was smelling loudly. There was also a bottle of Rose’s lime-juice and another of ready-made cocktails. He began to unpack the things one by one, clamouring for plates and entrée dishes. In the process he made a great mess on the table by upsetting most of the lobster salad. + 

He swore roundly. “Damn the thing, it’s too utterly bloody! It’s ruined my gloves, and now look at the table!” In grim silence the cook repaired the damage. + 

This mishap appeared to have damped his ardour, for he sighed and removed his cap and apron. “Can anyone open this bottle of olives? And the cocktails? Here, Stephen, you can tackle the cheese; it seems rather shy, it won’t leave its kennel.” In the end it was Stephen and the cook who must do all the work, while Brockett sat down on the floor and gave them ridiculous orders. + 