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  At half-past-one, Mrs. Packington kept her appoint.

  ment at the Ritz. Mr. Parker Pyne, faultlessly dresse¢

  and carrying with him his atmosphere of soothin

  reassurance, was waiting for her.

  "Charming," he said, an experienced eye sweepinl

  her from head to foot. "I have ventured to order you

  White Lady."

  Mrs. Packington, who had not contracted the cock.

  tail habit, made no demur. As she sipped the excitinl

  fluid gingerly, she listened to her benevolent instructor.

  "Your husband, Mrs. Packington," said Mr. Parkel

  Pyne, "must be made to Sit Up. You understand--to

  Sit Up. To assist in that, I am going to introduce to you

  a young friend of mine. You will lunch with him

  today."

  At that moment a young man came along, looking

  from side to side. He espied Mr. Parker Pyne and came

  gracefully towards them.

  "Mr. Claude Luttrell, Mrs. Packington."

  8

  Agatha Christie

  Mr. Claude Luttrell was perhaps just short of thirty.

  He was graceful, debonair, perfectly dressed, extremely

  handsome.

  "Delighted to meet you," he murmured.

  Three minutes later Mrs. Packington was facing her

  new mentor at a small table for two.

  She was shy at first, but Mr. Luttrell soon put her at

  her ease. He knew Paris well and had spent a good deal

  of time on the Riviera. He asked Mrs. Packington if she

  were fond of dancing. Mrs. Packington said she was,

  but that she seldom got any dancing nowadays as Mr.

  Packington didn't care to go out in the evenings.

  "But he couldn't be so unkind as to keep you at

  home," said Claude Luttrell, smiling and displaying a

  dazzling row of teeth. "Women will not tolerate male

  jealousy in these days."

  Mrs. Packington nearly said that jealousy didn't enter

  into the question. But the words rema:,ned unspoken.

  After all, it was an agreeable idea.

  Claude Luttrell spoke airily of night clubs. It was settled

  that on the following evening Mrs. Packington and

  Mr. Luttrell should patronize the popular Lesser Archangel.

  Mrs. Packington was a little nervous about announcing

  this fact to her husband. George, she felt, would

  think it extraordinary and possibly ridiculous. But she

  was saved all trouble on this score. She had been too

  nervous to make her announcement at breakfast, and at

  two o'clock a telephone message came to the effect that

  Mr. Packington would be dining in town.

  The evening was a great success. Mrs. Packington had

  been a good dancer as a girl and under Claude Luttrell's

  skilled guidance she soon picked up modern steps. He

  congratulated her on her gown and also on the arrange

  THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE

  ment of her hair. (An appointment had been made

  her that morning with a fashionable hairdresser.)

  bidding her farewell, he kissed her hand in a most th

  ing manner. Mrs. Packington had not enjoyed an ev

  ing so much for years.

  A bewildering ten days ensued. Mrs. Packing

  lunched, teaed, tangoed, dined, danced and supped. I

  heard all about Claude Luttrell's sad childhood.

  heard the sad circumstances in which his father lost

  his money. She heard of his tragic romance and his

  bittered feelings towards women generally.

  On the eleventh day they were dancing at the Red

  miral. Mrs. Packington saw her spouse before he .

  her. George was with the young lady from his offi

  Both couples were dancing.

  "Hello, George," said Mrs. Packington lightly,

  their orbits brought them together.

  It was with considerable amusement that She saw 1

  husband's face grow first red, then purple with ast

  ishment. With the astonishment was blended an expr

  sion of guilt detected.

  Mrs. Packington felt amusedly mistress of the sill

  tion. Poor old George! Seated once more at her ta she watched them. How stout he was, how bald, h.

  terribly he bounced on his feet! He danced in the style

  twenty years ago. Poor George, how terribly he wan

  to be young! And that poor girl he was dancing with h

  to pretend to like it. She looked bored enough now, 1

  face over his shoulder where he couldn't see it.

  How much more enviable, thought Mrs. Packingt,

  contentedly, was her own situation. She glanced at t

  perfect Claude, now tactfully silent. How well he und

  stood her. He never jarred--as husbands so inevitat

  did jar after a lapse of years.

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  Agatha Christie

  She looked at him again. Their eyes met. He smiled;

  his beautiful dark eyes, so melancholy, so romantic,

  looked tenderly into hers.

  "Shall we dance again?" he murmured.

  They danced again. It was heaven!

  She was conscious of George's apoplectic gaze

  following them. It had been the idea, she remembered,

  to make George jealous. What a long time ago that was!

  She really didn't want George to be jealous now. It

  might upset him. Why should he be upset, poor thing?

  Everyone was so happy ....

  Mr. Packington had been home an hour when Mrs.

  Packington got in. He looked bewildered and unsure of

  himself.

  "Humph," he remarked. "So you're back."

  Mrs. Packington cast off an evening wrap which had

  cost her forty guineas that very morning. "Yes," she

  said, smiling. "I'm back."

  · George coughed. "Er--rather odd meeting you."

  "Wasn't it?" said Mrs. Packington.

  "I--well, I thought it would be a kindness to take

  that girl somewhere. She's been having a lot of trouble

  at home. I thought--well, kindness you know."

  Mrs. Packington nodded. Poor old George--bouncing

  on his feet and getting so hot and being so pleased

  with himself.

  "Who's that chap you were with? I don't know him,

  do I?"

  "Luttrell, his name is. Claude Luttrell."

  "How did you come across him?"

  "Oh, someone introduced me," said Mrs. Pack-ington

  vaguely.

  "Rather a queer thing for you to go out dancing--at

  your time of life. Mustn't make a fool of yourself, my

  dear."

  THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE

  11

  Mrs. Packington smiled. She was feeling much too

  kindly to the universe in general to make the obvious

  reply. "A change is always nice," she said amiably.

  "You've got to be careful, you know. A lot of these

  lounge-lizard fellows going about. Middle-aged women

  sometimes make awful fools of themselves. I'm just

  warning you, my dear. I don't like to see you doing

  anything unsuitable."

  "I find the exercise very beneficial," said Mrs. Pack-ington.

  "UmNyes."

  "I expect you do, too," said Mrs. Packington kindly.

  "The great thing is to be happy, isn't it? I remember

  your saying so one morning at breakfast, about ten days

  ago. ' '

  Her husband looked at her sharply, but her
expres-sion

  was devoid of sarcasm. She yawned.

  "I must go to bed. By the way, George, I've been

  dreadfully extravagant lately. Some terrible bills will be

  coming in. You don't mind, do you?"

  "Bills?" said Mr. Packington.

  "Yes. For clothes. And massage. And hair treatment.

  Wickedly extravagant I've been--but I know you won't

  mind."

  She passed up the stairs. Mr. Packington remained

  with his mouth open. Maria had been amazingly nice

  about this evening's business; she hadn't seemed to care

  at all. But it was a pity she had suddenly taken to spend-ing

  money. Maria--that model of economy!

  Women! George Packington shook his head. The

  scrapes that girl's brothers had been getting into lately.

  Well, he'd been glad to help. All the same--and dash it

  all, things weren't going too well in the City.

  Sighing, Mr. Packington in his turn slowly climbed

  the stairs.

  12

  Agatha Christie

  Sometimes words that fail to make their effect at the

  time are remembered later. Not till the following morn-ing

  did certain words uttered by Mr. Packington really

  penetrate his wife's consciousness.

  Lounge lizards; middle-aged women; awful fools of

  themselves.

  Mrs. Packington was courageous at heart. She sat

  down and faced facts. A gigolo. She had read all about

  gigolos in the papers. Had read, too, of the follies of

  middle-aged women.

  Was Claude a gigolo? She supposed he was. But then,

  gigolos were paid for and Claude always paid for her.

  Yes, but it was Mr. Parker Pyne who paid, not Claude

  --or, rather, it was really her own two hundred guineas.

  Was she a middle-aged fool? Did Claude Luttrell

  laugh at her behind her back? Her face flushed at the

  thought.

  Well, what of it? Claude was a gigolo. She was a

  middle-aged fool. She supposed she should have given

  him something. A gold cigaret case. That sort of thing.

  A queer impulse drove her out 'there and then to

  Asprey's. The cigaret case was chosen and paid for. She

  was to meet Claude at Claridge's for lunch.

  As they were sipping coffee she produced it from her

  bag. "A little present," she murmured.

  He looked up, frowned. "For me?"

  "Yes. I--I hope you like it."

  His hand closed over it and he slid it violently across

  the table. "Why do you give me that? I won't take it.

  Take it back. Take it back, I say." He was angry. His

  dark eyes flashed.

  She murmured, "I'm sorry," and put it away in her

  bag again.

  There was constraint between them that day.

  The following morning he rang her up. "I must see

  THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE

  yOU. Can I come to your house this afternoon?"

  She told him to come at three o'clock.

  He arrived very white, very tense. They greeted PA

  other. The constraint was more evident.

  Suddenly he sprang up and stood facing her. "Wh

  do you think I am? That is what I've come to ask yo

  We've been friends, haven't we? Yes, friends. But:

  the same, you think l'm--well, a gigolo. A creature wi

  lives on women. A lounge lizard. You do, don't you?"

  "No, no."

  He swept aside her protest. His face had gone ye

  white. "You do think that! Well, it's true. That's wh I've come to say. It's true! I had my orders to take y

  about, to amuse you, to make love to you, to make yl

  forget your husband. That was my job. A despicat

  one, eh?"

  "Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

  "Because I'm through with it. I can't carry on with

  Not with you. You,re different. You're the kind

  woman I could believe in, trust, adore. You think I'

  just saying this; that it's part of the game." He can

  closer to her. "I'm going to prove to you it isn't. I'

  going away--because of you. I'm going to make myse

  into a man instead of the loathsome creature I a:

  because of you."

  He took her suddenly in his arms. His lips closed ¢

  hers. Then he released her and stood away.

  "Good-by. I've been a rotter--always. But I swe;

  it will be different now. Do you remember once sayil

  you liked to read the advertisements in the Agony cc

  umn? On this day every year you'll find there a messal

  from me saying that I remember and am making goo

  You'll know, then, all you've meant to me. One thir

  more. I've taken nothing from you. I want you to tal

  something from me." He drew a plain gold seal rin

  14

  Agatha Christie

  from his finger. "This was my mother's. I'd like you to

  have it. Now good-by."

  He left her standing there amazed, the gold ring in her

  hand.

  George Packington came home early. He found his

  wife gazing into the fire with a far-away look. She spoke

  kindly but absently to him.

  "Look here, Maria," he jerked out suddenly.

  "About that girl?"

  "Yes, dear?"

  "I--I never meant to upset you, you know. About

  her. Nothing in it."

  "I know. I was foolish. See as much as you like of her

  if it makes you happy."

  These words, surely, should have cheered George

  Packington. Strangely enough, they annoyed him. How

  could you enjoy taking a girl about when your wife

  fairly urged you on? Dash it all, it wasn't decent! All

  that feeling of being a gay dog, of being a strong man

  playing with fire, fizzled out and died an ignominious

  death. George Packington felt suddenly tired and a

  great deal poorer in pocket. The girl was a shrewd little

  piece.

  "We might go away together somewhere for a bit if

  you like, Maria?" he suggested timidly.

  "Oh, never mind about me. I'm quite happy."

  "But I'd like to take you away. We might go to the

  Riviera."

  Mrs. Packington smiled at him from a distance.

  Poor old George. She was fond of him. He was such a

  pathetic old dear. There was no secret splendor in his

  life as there was in hers. She smiled more tenderly still.

  "That would be lovely, my dear," she said.

  Mr. Parker Pyne was speaking to Miss Lemon.

  "Entertainment account?"

  THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE

  "One hundred and two pounds, fourteen and sixpence,"

  said Miss Lemon.

  The door was pushed open and Claude Luttrell

  entered. He looked moody.

  "Morning, Claude," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "Everything

  go off satisfactorily?"

  "I suppose so."

  "The ring? What name did you put in it, by the

  way?"

  "Matilda," said Claude gloomily. "1899."

  "Excellent. What wording for the advertisement?"

  "'Making good. Still remember. Claude.'"

  "Make a note of that, please. Miss Lemon. The

  Agony column. November third for--let me see, expenses

  a hundred and two pounds, fourteen and six.

  Yes, for ten years, I think. That leaves us a pro
fit of

  ninety-two pounds, two and fourpence. Adequate.

  Quite adequate."

  Miss Lemon departed.

  "Look here," Claude burst out. "I don't like this.

  It's a rotten game."

  "My dear boy!"

  "A rotten game. That was a decent womanma good

  sort. Telling her all those lies, filling her up with this sob

  stuff, dash it all, it makes me sick!"

  Mr. Parker Pyne adjusted his glasses and looked at

  Claude with a kind of scientific interest. "Dear me!" he

  said dryly. "I do not seem to remember that your conscience

  ever troubled you during your somewhat--ahem!--notorious

  career. Your affairs on the Riviera

  were particularly brazen, and your exploitation of Mrs.

  Hattie West, the Californian Cucumber King's wife,

  was especially notable for the callous mercenary instinct

  you displayed."

  "Well, I'm beginning to feel different," grumbled

  16

  Agatha Christie

  Claude. "It isn't--nice, this game."

  Mr. Parker Pyne spoke in the voice of a head master

  admonishing a favorite pupil. "You have, my dear

  Claude, performed a meritorious action. You have

  given an unhappy woman what every woman needs--a

  romance. A woman tears a passion to pieces and gets

  no good from it, but a romance can be laid. up in

  lavender and looked at all through the long years to

  come. I know human nature, my boy, and I tell you that

  a woman can feed on such an incident for years." He

  coughed. "We have discharged our commission to Mrs.

  Packington very satisfactorily."

  "Well," muttered Claude, "I don't like it." He left

  the room.