Afterwards,Pen returned to her lodgings. She refreshed herself and left for White’s. She found herself in a dangerously morose mood, pondering on her fate and life in general.
The icy knot in her stomach clenched tighter. What would happen to her? What would she do? Where would she live?
“What a muddle this is,” she muttered.
“If you will excuse me, sir,” a voice intruded into her thoughts. The porter stood in front of her.
“I am wearing my best coat today,” Pen started defensively.
“No, no, sir. I merely meant I need to pick up the Philodendron here and need to move your armchair aside. The poor plant has all but died. I wonder what ails it?”
Pen stared at the plant, which sported shrivelled and dried yellow leaves.
“How very odd,” the porter mourned, “when I took such pains to water it regularly.” He bore off the plant with a doleful face.
Pen the plant killer. She struggled to maintain a straight face and wondered where she should pour her brandy now.
