Eliza’s Husband
Date: 1902-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humor; Short Fiction; Edwardian Fiction; Home life
Description: Eliza is long-suffering and intelligent, her husband is a pompous prig and a self-regarding idiot, in “some of the funniest stories in the English language” … ~ ~ ~ ~ “A gentle, yet deliciously humourous series of brief anecdotes, that follow the mundane, though surprisingly hazard-strewn lives of our rather pompous main character, and his long-suffering wife, Eliza.” (— Nigel Boydell at Librivox) ~ ~ ~ ~ Barry Pain’s comedic “Eliza” stories are perhaps his best-known works. The sequence is comprised of the collections “Eliza”, “Eliza’s Husband”, “Eliza Getting On”, “Exit Eliza”, and “Eliza’s
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA

ELIZA’S
HUSBAND

BARRY PAIN

MobileRead Edition
2022

Eliza is long-suffering and intelligent, her husband is a pompous prig and a self-regarding idiot, in “some of the funniest stories in the English language” …

“A gentle, yet deliciously humourous series of brief anecdotes, that follow the mundane, though surprisingly hazard-strewn lives of our rather pompous main character, and his long-suffering wife, Eliza.”
(— Nigel Boydell at Librivox)

Barry Pain’s comedic “Eliza” stories are perhaps his best-known works. The sequence is comprised of the collections Eliza, Eliza’s Husband, Eliza Getting On, Exit Eliza, and Eliza’s Son. These stories are often compared to the Weedon brothers’ Diary of a Nobody (1888-89) [praised by Evelyn Waugh as “the funniest book in the world.”]

Barry Eric Odell Pain (28 Sep. 1864 – 05 May 1928) was an English journalist, poet, humorist and writer. During his lifetime, he was perhaps best known as a writer of parody and lightly humorous stories, but now is also noted for his tales touched with fantasy, horror, and the supernatural. He also wrote stories of mystery and suspense. His humor has been characterized by some modern critics as “a surreal forerunner to Monty Python.”

Eliza’s Husband, first published in 1903, is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS

… Cover

… Titlepage / About

ELIZA’S HUSBAND

His Prefatory Note
First-Class
“The Hag of Haverstone”
The Horse that Did No Wrong
The Burglar
By Arrangement
Miss Jerningham
The Gloves
The Invitation
The Funeral
The Leak
The Thermometer
A Gloomy Sunday
Two Letters
The Entertainment
The Remarkable Fog

ELIZA’S HUSBAND

HIS PREFATORY NOTE

Some time ago I published a little work called “Eliza.” It consisted of scenes from my home-life and incidents in my career. I pointed out the importance of little things, only too often disregarded. To my mind, the mere arrangement of a few biscuits on a plate may show the kind of man that is master of the house. I gave instances of proper retorts that I had made in the course of conversation, and showed how in other cases I had relied rather on the expression of my face, or some simple gesture, or walking straight out of the room. I illustrated the way in which I managed Eliza, and the girl, and the home generally; in fact, I showed what could be done by a man of small income, though in a more or less semi-professional position socially, simply by the exercise of good taste and thoughtfulness.

I am far from being a vain man. I do not ask others to model themselves upon me exactly. I may have my faults, and I ask nobody to imitate them. I am quite well aware that there have been occasions when, after some differences of opinion between myself and Eliza, I have found out that her views, after all, were the more correct. It was so only the other day, when the question of the choice of a dust-bin came My selection was “The Sanitary Refuse Receptacle,” which had brass handles, and a very pretty scroll pattern round the top. It was expensive, I admit, and I am no means blind to the question of expense, but the style of it was quite beyond mistake. Compared to the others we inspected it simply stood in a class by itself — and, mark this, a dust-bin is not a thing that in the ordinary course of suburban life you can keep entirely to yourself. It is the one piece of furniture of the house which must at regular intervals be brought into the public eye, so to speak. When the dust-men call, there it is in sight of every passer-by as well as neighbours who may be at their doors and windows, and naturally they form their own conclusions. However, Eliza was very strongly in favour of a much cheaper article, so strongly, in fact, that I gave way in order that the man in the shop might not think there was any disagreement between us. I just raised my eyebrows, and said: “Oh, have your own way as usual; it’s enough for me to want one thing to make you want another.” She had her own way. She said money was always useful, and you never knew what might happen, Afterwards, when the lamentable incident of the horse occurred — narrated at length in my subsequent pages — I felt that she had been right.

And possibly there are one or two points about me that it would not be altogether easy for just anybody to catch. I have been told that I have a manner of my own. There may be something in that, and manner is not easy to describe. You know that it is there, and that is all you can say about it. This book may contain useful hints to family men in similar circumstances to myself if it is read properly and seriously, but I cannot promise they will be able to acquire my manner. It is not stand-offish exactly, and I don’t think it would be called free-and-easy. It’s — well, it’s either born with you or it’s not. Let me give you one or two little illustrations as to manner. On one occasion a gentleman entered the office when I had occasion to reprimand the boy most severely for an irregularity in his petty-cash account. “Here,” said the gentleman to me, “you seem to own this place. Can you tell me if Mr. Bagshawe’s in?”

On another occasion a beggar, who told me that he had been a valet in titled families, and should therefore have been in a position to judge, touched his hat and said, “Thank you, m’lord,” although I had never even hinted at the possibility of my being a peer of the realm.

Once when I had been attracted by the cheapness of some gun-metal watches in a shop-window, and asked to see them, the man behind the counter said: “It would be no good to show them to you, sir; they’re only meant for clerks and people of that kind. You wouldn’t like the quality. But I’ve got a superior article that might suit you.” And ultimately he sold me one at 12s, 6d., though it was more than I had intended to give.

Another time, on returning from the seaside with Eliza, I was getting our luggage together at the London terminus. My porter pulled out of the van a portmanteau which was clearly labelled “Count von Popoff,” and said, “That one of yours, sir?”

These are only a few instances, and I could give others. Why is it that I am so frequently mistaken for a man of considerable means, or even for a nobleman of high position? I was turning it over the other night.

“Do you think,” I said to Eliza, “that there is anything remarkable in my personal appearance?”

“Well,” she said, “your right eye still shows where you fetched up against the Stesset in the dark the other night, but there’s nothing else very much out of the way.”

Nor do I think that there is anything in my attire to account for it. I dress in as gentlemanly a way as my means will allow. But these mistakes have never been made on Sunday morning, when, if attire had anything to do with it, they would be more easily comprehensible. No, I can only assign them to my manner; there is a something about it, apparently.

Possibly the gentle reader will form some estimate of it when he reads the further scenes and incidents of my domestic life. They belong to a year which, quite contrary to my expectation, was somewhat overcast by a financial misfortune. It was due to no fault whatever of mine, as every just reader of the pages which relate the affair of the horse will allow. And it is the more pathetic because it followed close on my advancement and increase of salary; hardly had I mounted one rung higher on the ladder before the balloon collapsed.

Readers will be glad to know that at the end of the year it rose like the Phoenix from its ashes. The commercial firm — one of the finest in the City — in which I hold a most important position, gave me the further advance in salary that had been promised if my appointment proved satisfactory. They might have done it more graciously, and it seemed to me a singularly ill-chosen time for pointing out to me supposed defects in the working of my department; but, still, they did it. In fact, I am writing of troubles which are now definitely past.

My financial position is at present perfectly sound. I do not wish to brag — there is nothing I dislike more — but we do things on quite a different scale now. If Eliza goes up to see her mother now, and it happens to be a very wet and dirty day, and there is no room inside the trams, I tell her just to take a shilling cab, and not think twice about it; and, what is more, I have known her on some occasions to do so. And if Mr. Sidney Gorles and Mr. Percy Jennings were not members of the Batrick Park Lawn Tennis Club, I should join to morrow. It is not the subscription which stops me; it is merely that I am rather particular about the kind of company I keep. This being so, I even feel some pleasure in going over the days when the pressure was far more severe.

And I hope that this book may fall into the hands of many young couples who will read it seriously and try to get some useful lessons from it.

FIRST-CLASS

When you are travelling from our suburb to the City in the morning and back again in the evening, you cannot always pick and choose your company. The trains are too crowded. I have written twice to the company about it, and on both occasions I received a polite and well-worded reply, but the evil has not been remedied.

I felt this very much at the time when I had a second-class season ticket. I was frequently obliged to enter a compartment with Sidney Gorles and his friends. They are not at all my kind of people, and they are not up to my standard. Wit, when it is really wit, I can appreciate — no man more so; but the senseless questions which Sidney Gorles was in the habit of addressing to me were the merest buffoonery, and I have told him so pretty sharply more than once. I wonder that even his friends could smile at them. Nor was that all. Sometimes they would pay a game of cards called, I believe, Napoleon. More than once Sidney Gorles himself, if not actually intoxicated, had obviously exceeded the bounds.

He would frequently begin by asking if the hens were laying nicely now. He is perfectly well aware that I do not keep fowls. Sometimes he would ask if the Virginia creeper was creeping as well as could be expected. He would also put a question with regard to a tortoiseshell cat which I shall not sully this page by repeating. When I treated his remarks with silent contempt, he would tell me not to be so coy and cold, or to come out from under that hat, or to give him just one loving smile; sometimes he would simulate paroxysms of sobs, and say that I had broken his heart.

That was the kind of man Sidney Gorles was — vulgarity itself; most offensive. I am at a loss to understand why a respectable insurance company continued to employ him. If I were in their place I should make very short work of Mr. Gorles.

When I was raised to be the head of a department, with an increase of £75 for the first year, Eliza and I decided — it was almost, in fact, at her suggestion — that I should now take a first-class season ticket. Had we known then what was to happen in the matter of the horse (of which I shall speak later), we might have decided differently. I should certainly have disputed the advisability of settling with Eliza’s mother, who had obliged with temporary loans during a period of pressure. It was a real pleasure to the old lady to assist us, and we might have looked at it from her point of view. In any case, I think thirty or thirty-five shillings on account should have been ample. However, Eliza was particularly hot at the time on being out of debt. Most women, I have found, are too impulsive. They mean well, but they need the guiding hand. Perhaps I was wrong. I am not one of those who pretend that they never made a mistake. But on my last second-class journey Sidney Gorles was particularly troublesome, and I just said to him:

“Tomorrow I shall not have the pleasure of your company. And,” I added rather bitterly, “it is, perhaps, worth-while to pay for the pier of avoiding it.”

He dropped back in his seat as if he had been shot.

“He’s going first-class!” he exclaimed to his friends. “Hold my hand, somebody, and loosen my corsage. It’s His Majesty the King of Siam, and we never knew it.” He then begged me to spare his life, and made other senseless observations of which I took no notice.

Next morning when I appeared on the station platform Gorles and his friends all took off their hats to me. When I got into my carriage, Gorles came up to the door and said loudly enough for everybody to hear:

“Beg pardon, but is your Majesty about to return to Siam?”

“Don’t be a fool, Gorles!” I said peremptorily.

“Sorry you take it like that,” said Sidney Gorles. “If you had been returning, I wanted to send my love to the Siamese twins — that’s all.” Then he made a rush for his second-class carriage.

In the evening at Broad Street, I had no sooner taken my seat in the train than Gorles once more came up. He touched his hat.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” he said, “but her ladyship desired me to say that the roans would be unable to meet you at the station tonight. One of them is suffering from a family bereavement, and is not going out just now. Her ladyship is sending the — er — perambulator.”

After that for some time I took a strong line. I went up to town a train earlier than Gorles, and I came back one train later.

Eliza said that if I would only take a joke as a joke, and join in it, Sidney Gorles would soon let me alone.

“You will permit me, my dear,” I said, “to be the best judge in this matter. There are some of Mr. Gorles’s so-called jokes — notably one with reference to a tortoiseshell cat — in which no man with a sense of propriety would wish to join.”

Eliza went on with her work in silence for some minutes and I certainly thought that my words had gone home. Then she said:

“What was it exactly that Gorles said about the tortoiseshell cat?”

“I am surprised at you, Eliza! If you knew what it was, I am sure you would not wish to ask.”

“Of course not. Who wants to be told what they know already?”

“I could explain my remark. What I meant was—”

“Oh, never mind what you meant. You shouldn’t have begun about it if you didn’t mean to finish it. Now I shall be lying awake half the night trying to think what it was. And that’ll be your fault.”

Not quite just, I thought. I merely recommended her to take some good book, and in this way to turn her mind to other subjects.

•   •   •

But Sidney Gorles was not the only trouble in connection with my first-class season ticket — not by any manner of means. It has been, I believe, observed by a well-known writer that at the very moment when our highest expectations appear to be fulfilled, something frequently occurs to take the gilt off the gingerbread.

It was so in the matter of my increased salary; this was followed by the regrettable incident of the horse, which (for the instruction it conveys) I shall narrate subsequently. It was so again in the matter of my first-class ticket. A man of my kind of mind notices these things and thinks about them. They are a mystery. We cannot understand them.

The firm (highly respected in the City) in whose employment I hold an honourable and practically semi-professional position would tell you that I am an honest man. I will go further! I will say that dishonesty in any form, and more especially when it is dishonesty at my expense, awakens in me a disgust which it is difficult to express in language suitable for general circulation.

Briefly, I noticed — I could not help noticing — that those who entered my first-class carriage were frequently people who quite obviously had not paid the first-class fee. Where were the inspectors? That was what I asked myself.

On one occasion — and one only — did I in my second-class days travel first-class. It was through hurry and inadvertence. Even when I discovered my mistake my conscience was perfectly clear, for I held a return half which I had paid for and been unable to use between two stations on another line. Between myself, therefore, and railway companies in general the account was fairly balanced. But on that occasion an inspector did enter the carriage, demanded to see my ticket, and — not too politely — compelled me to pay the difference. Where were the inspectors now — now when I really required them?

One day a man entered who smelled of gas and train-oil and carried a bag of tools; he was apparently a plumber. He put his feet up on the cushions, and said to me:

“Bit of all right for us, ain’t it?”

As he seemed to be under a mistaken impression about me, I said that I held a first-class season ticket.

“Ah!” he said, “I ’as my private Pullman car as a rule, but they’ve forgot to ’itch it on today. Careless beggars!”

As soon as I got home I wrote a long letter to the company relating this incident, and asking if — speaking as man to man — they could pretend that this kind of thing was satisfactory. I again received a polite and well-worded reply thanking me for calling their attention to the matter. But I was still subjected to similar annoyances, and I saw that there was nothing for it but to take the matter into my own hands, to mark down some habitual offender, and to make an example of him.

I had no difficulty in selecting my case. It was a grubby old man with a furtive look and a shabby brown overcoat. I frequently found him in the compartment that I entered in the morning, and I also observed him on the return journey. He always travelled first-class, And this was going on right under the noses of the railway officials.

The guard of my evening train was a very civil and intelligent fellow. I had once given him a shilling. He always smiles and touches his hat when he sees me. I waited for my opportunity, and then one night I spoke to him at Broad Street.

“Guard,” I said, “there is a man in that first-class compartment with the door open. He’s just got in, and he’s the only man there. He makes a practice of travelling first, and I wish you would just ask to look at his ticket. It would not surprise me very much to find that he had no ticket at all; certainly he is not a first-class passenger.”

“I’ll put that right,” said the guard, and went up the platform to the compartment which I had indicated. He looked in, touched his hat most respectfully, and came back to me.

“There must be some mistake, sir,” he said. “That’s Sir William, the director, you know.”

Fortunately I kept my presence of mind. I said:

“I’ll just see for myself.”

It was — as I knew it was — the grubby old man in the shabby brown overcoat. After all, I suppose that gentlemen of title and position can, if they choose, neglect their personal appearance and show a disregard for the things that we think important.

I went back to the guard.

“That’s Sir William right enough,” I said. “He and I are — well, there’s no mistake about that. The man I meant very likely hopped out again, seeing that I had my eye on him.”

“Nothing more likely,” said the guard.

I gave him another shilling and took my seat.

Since that time I have once or twice spoken to Sir William as a director, though, of course, I had too much tact to let him know that I knew it. I thought he might be glad to have my favourable opinion of the admirable way in which the line is conducted. But I should say that he is a man who does not much care for conversation in trains — it may be, of course, that he is slightly deaf. Sometimes he did not seem to hear when I spoke to him. But he once asked me for a match, and thanked me most affably.

“THE HAG
OF HAVERSTONE”

“I thought,” said Eliza, “that you weren’t one for reading these trashy novels. I’ve spoken twice to you about the sweep not having come, and got no answer. There you sit.”

I put the book down. I had just finished it.

“Pardon me,” I said, “but this book is not, strictly speaking, a novel at all.”

She picked the book up and read the title-page, “‘The Hag of Haverstone: a Story of the Old Days. By Margaret Ratton.’ And here’s a picture on the cover of a gentleman in armour jumping into a ditch with a bath towel under his arm. And that is not a novel! Oh well, we live and learn.”

Satire is not Eliza’s strong point; perhaps she would do better to leave that to me. However, I replied quietly:

“I said that it was not, strictly speaking, a novel. It might perhaps be called an historical novel — a work which contains under the attractive guise of a story much useful information, and gives a vivid account of the old days. And you have misunderstood the picture. The gentleman in armour is Sir Guy Redheart. He is carrying despatches — and not a bath towel — for Prince Rupert. He is not leaping into a ditch. He is plunging into a fathomless abyss to save be despatches from falling into the hands of the enemy. You are liable to jump to hasty conclusions, Eliza.”

“Same as him,” said Eliza. “What did he want to take and do a silly thing like that for?”

“You do not understand. The despatches contained a complete key to the enemy’s position. It was of the utmost importance that they should not learn that this information was being conveyed to the prince. It was a noble, a self-sacrificing, an heroic action.”

Eliza looked at the picture meditatively.

“Pity he went out without his mother. Nice-looking man, too. But that weakness in the intellect don’t always show.”

“I imagine that you are saying this to annoy me, Eliza. Sir Guy Redheart was not in the least a weak-minded man. I have read the story, and I ought to know. It says of him in his boyhood, when he did not know who he really was—”

“There you are,” said Eliza. “A woman that washed for mother had a son went the same way — ten years old and couldn’t have told you his name were it ever so. Still, they used to send him errands just like the man in the book.”

“Will you kindly permit me to finish my sentences instead of talking nonsense?”

“You weren’t talking nonsense exactly. At least, I never said so.”

I controlled myself.

“Sir Guy Redheart in his boyhood did not know who he really was. His own mother did not know.”

“It often runs in families,” said Eliza.

“And they did not know, because in his infancy he had been lost, and was brought up as the son of a simple woodcutter. Only the Hag of Haverstone herself was at that time acquainted with the secret of his noble birth. And the authoress distinctly states that in his boyhood he was astute beyond his years. Astute beyond his years, Eliza; and you will at least permit the authoress, Margaret Ratton, to know what she is talking about. At a further point he is specially chosen to carry these despatches because, as the general says, ‘There we have cunning and courage combined, the wit to plan, and the spirit to carry through the enterprise!’”

“Ah!” said Eliza. “And had he gone far with these despatches?”

“He had ridden till his horse dropped under him, and then proceeded on foot.”

“And the roads dusty and the pubs frequent,” said Eliza. “That would be it. Well, it’s a good temperance lesson, anyhow, and that’s more than you can say for some of these books.”

“The man,” I said, “was a brave, true-hearted hero, neither a fool nor a drunkard, and I am at a loss to understand why you should—”

“I am only going by what you’ve told me.”

“We will put the matter to a simple test. Hand me the book, please. Thank you. Now we shall see. Sir Guy Redheart was pursued, you will remember. It says here: ‘He could hear their galloping steeds. In a few moments they would be round the corner. To fly was impossible, and no place of concealment presented itself. Stay! Close to his feet yawned the Devil’s Pit. There in its black and limitless depths — and there alone — the despatches would be safe. What though it meant instant death to him? With a loud of “For the Prince and the Cause!” he leaped into the abyss. The troopers heard that cry as they swept into the open. “Baffled, by God!” exclaimed the foremost of them.’ But I have read enough.”

“If I were Margaret Ratton’s mother,” said Eliza, “I should want to know where she learned all that swearing from.”

“We will stick to the point, please. You say that Sir Guy Redheart did a foolish thing. You have heard the circumstances. What ought he to have done? What would you have done?”

Eliza threaded a needle very carefully.

“Let’s hear what you’d have done first.”

“Well,” I said, “you may possibly think that I speak in a spirit of braggadocio.”

“Bag of what?”

“Not bag. Braggadocio. But, as it happens, I have been in an almost similar position to Sir Guy Redheart. When I was in a subordinate position to that which I now hold, I was given important letters to post for the firm. In order to catch a post I had to cross a City street thronged with traffic as fast as I could run. I went, of course, at the imminent risk of my life—”

Eliza here interrupted me in a way that I dislike extremely. For some reason or other she seemed bent on making herself unpleasant.

“No,” I said, “not at the imminent risk of my grandmother’s ducks, but at the imminent risk of my own life, as those who know the dangers of our crowded London thoroughfares best would tell you. I said little or nothing about it at the time, but the facts remain; and that being so, I think I have a right to say that I should have done exactly what Sir Guy Redheart did.”

“Finished?” asked Eliza.

“I have.”

“Then perhaps you’ll let me get a word in. When you posted those letters, did you post yourself as well?”

“Of course not. The question is absurd, Why?”

“Because that’s exactly what Sir Guy Redheart did. Anybody would think he and the blessed despatches were all made in one piece or they were screwed on to him. What he ought to have done — and what a common-sense man would have done — was to pitch the despatches down the abyss and then walk back to the pursuers with his eyes on the ground as if he’d dropped something and were looking for it. Ten to one that dodge would have kidded them. Time enough to jump down fathomless precipices when you can’t help it or there’s something to be got by it. But what can you expect of a chap like that? He doesn’t want people to know he’s got despatches, so he has them written large on a roll big enough to paper our passage and leave a bit over for mending, and then carries it under his arm for everybody to see. The likelihood is he might have got it all on a half-sheet, folded it small, and tucked it into the lining of his helmet. Or if it really wanted all that paper, why didn’t he slip it into a fish-basket with a bit of green stuff on the top, so that nobody could see what he was getting at? No; he’s got to go flourishing it about so as there can’t be any mistake. And that’s a true-hearted hero, is it? All I can say is that if you set him down in our street today he’d have to scratch pretty hard to get a living, and the police would likely run him in for a wandering idiot before he ever got started.”

“I think, Eliza, you would do better not to interfere with literary questions which you do not understand. You want to make a clean sweep—”

“Yes; and talking about sweeps, you’ll have that kitchen chimney alight, and so I tell you. Why, the girl can’t get on for the soot falling. I sent her round to say Packham was to be here at six this morning, and he as good as told her he wasn’t coming till he was paid for last time. And that’s three shillings; and what are you going to do about it?”

I handed her two-and-eightpence and told her she would find four stamps in the drawer of the ink-stand.

I sometimes wonder what Sir Guy Redheart would do in my position. It is a curious fact, but he seems never to have had any petty annoyances.

THE HORSE
THAT DID NO WRONG

I had formed my own plan for the Easter Monday immediately following my promotion. I had a long talk over the matter weeks before with Mr. Percy Jennings, who teaches riding and driving, and lets out horses and vehicles.

He heard what I had got to say, and seemed respectful, but doubtful.

“Well, sir,” he said, “things being as you say, if I might advise, I should think you’d better change your mind. Let me send you a nice comfortable victoria and one of my men to drive you, and then there can’t be any mistake.”

“I think not, Mr. Jennings,” I said. “I want to drive myself and my wife in a dogcart to the Lion at Winthorpe; it would give me no pleasure to be driven. I know that my limited experience with — er — the humbler animal does not amount to very much, but I feel that I should be all right with a safe horse. You understand, a perfectly safe horse. I mean one that has no vice of any kind under any provocation, that does not require any looking after, and, if possible, an animal that is in the habit of going to and from the Lion, and knows the road thoroughly.”

Mr. Percy Jennings sucked a straw thoughtfully.

“You’re asking for miracles,” he said, “but as it happens I’ve got just that miracle. Young horse — Tommy we call him. He’s worth £60 of any man’s money, and he’s worth £80 to me in my business. In fact, if you offered me £80 for him now, I’d tell you to put your money back in your pocket. You see, I get gents here to learn, and when the beginners are beginning, I take them out with Tommy to get confidence. Say it’s an oldish gent who’s never seen a horse before, and has been told to ride by his doctor — first few times I put him up on Tommy. Say it’s a nervous lady wants to start a governess cart, and don’t know how to drive — I starts her with Tommy. That horse has never done anything wrong, and never thought of doing anything wrong, since the day he was foaled. He couldn’t do wrong if you asked him, and he’ll do anything else you ask. Why, the blooming horse would climb a tree if he thought I expected it of him. The very first day he was in the shakes I drove him straight to Winthorpe — and that’s a fact. No work comes amiss to him, nor nothing else, either. He’ll stand like a statue with his nose over a buzzing motor, or he’ll draw you twelve miles an hour without a whip. You can stop him with a thread, and turn him with just thinking about it. And he’s as pretty as he’s good. But—”

Mr. Jennings stopped short and shook his head.

“Well?” I said.

“But I don’t let that horse out to every chance comer to knock about as he pleases on the high-roads on an Easter Monday.”

“Now, Mr. Jennings,” I said, “do I look like a man who would knock a horse about?”

“No,” he said, “you don’t. If I may say it without offence, you’re the ignorant, nervous sort. And I’ve known them bring the horse and cart back safe when one of the rowdy lot, that think they know something, will get three-parts screwed, start racing, and go to glory. If I’d thought that you were one of the rowdy lot, I shouldn’t so much as have mentioned him to you. However, we can’t stop here talking all day. Set that horse towards Winthorpe, and he’ll go there and stop at the Lion — he’s used to it — if he’s not interfered with. Let him take his own pace up hill and down; he knows his business. And at night he’ll take you home all right if you let him alone. You taking all responsibility up to ten fivers, I might think about it.”

Business was subsequently arranged on these terms.

•   •   •

Eliza has not, perhaps, what would be called a sunny disposition. I said in my nonchalant way that evening, as I stirred my cocoa:

“I’ve arranged about the Bank Holiday, Eliza. I’m going to tool you over in a high dogcart to Wintharpe. I understand they give you a decent dinner at the Lion. Then I shall tool you back at night — moonlight, you know. A horse in Jennings’s stables — not let out as a general rule.”

All she would say at first was that extravagance was never any pleasure to her, and she wondered what mother would say if she knew. But after a certain amount of argument on both sides, I said that of course I should expect to make up for it in other ways as far as possible, and she admitted that she might enjoy it.

“If,” she added, “we ever get home alive.”

“That will be all right,” I said. “I shall not ask you to drive. That will be my province, and I am not entirely without experience.”

During the next few days I talked over the details frequently. There is nothing like a thorough preparation for making a success. I also kept my eye open in the streets and made some useful notes with reference to—

(a) Getting into the dogcart;

(b) Position of the hands and expression of face when driving;

(c) Arrangement of the rug;

(d) Getting out of the dogcart.

I also read carefully in our public reading-room an interesting and instructive article on “How Race-horses are Trained.” Its bearing on the subject was somewhat indirect, but I gathered from it the meaning of several phrases which had previously been something of a difficulty to me.

•   •   •

I may say at once that we reached the Lion at Winthorpe without any accident. There was one little contretemps, as the French would say. We happened to meet Miss Sakers — for which, in itself, | was not sorry. She bowed, and in raising my hat I fancy the reins got caught — I never quite understood how it happened — but the horse turned round. However, I got down, and put him back in the required direction. It was merely a mistake on the horse’s part, and he showed no trace of obstinacy. I also dropped my whip once or twice, but there is always some boy to pick that up for you and glad to earn a few coppers. I could not, considering the circumstances, agree with Eliza that a halfpenny would have been sufficient. However, I was quite good-tempered about it — indeed, I felt in particularly high spirits. I was wearing a straw hat for the first time that season — it was a last year’s hat, but Eliza had cleaned it with salts of lemon, so that really it was quite presentable. I also wore a black diagonal frock-coat and vest that I reserved for Sundays and similar occasions, and a pair of white flannel trousers and brown boots. The trousers were new and almost unnecessarily long and roomy. However, as Eliza pointed out at the time, that, of course, allows for shrinkage in the wash. My necktie was of white satin with sprigs of flowers embroidered in the natural colours — tasteful and, I think, uncommon. Eliza wore her mackintosh — rather against my wishes, as the day was quite fine. The general appearance of our turn-out gave me great satisfaction. Cannot help thinking that we made some impression on people that we met, and I amused myself with wondering what they thought I was.

The dinner at the Lion was good, though Eliza rather kicked at the price. I drank one pint of bitter at dinner, and no more. In the light of subsequent events the necessity of mentioning this will be apparent. The place was, unfortunately, rather crowded, and not entirely with the best class of people. There were too many Bank Holiday cyclists there foe my taste. One gentleman entered into conversation with me on the subject of horses. He was an elderly man, and Eliza said afterwards that she did not like his eye. Personally I found him most civil, quite ready to listen to me and to take a word of advice. He said that he had seen me drive up, and had said to the landlord: “That man knows what he’s doing, anyhow.” He seemed quite surprised to hear that it was not my own horse, and said he supposed I was trying it.

“Well,” I said, “under certain circumstances I might buy him.”

Here Eliza drew in her breath hard and long through her nose. It is an unpleasant habit. She does it whenever I say or do anything that she dislikes. Yet I had kept strictly within the limits of truth. I have no doubt that if my income had justified it I should have bought that horse. Indeed, as things turned out, I practically — but do not let me anticipate.

There is not very much to do at Winthorpe. We obtained permission from the proprietor to walk round the garden, but that took only three or four minutes. Then Eliza found out that there was a coconut shy in the village, and insisted on going to it. It was, perhaps, a little infra dig. (as they say), but I was in an easy temper after dinner, and let myself be persuaded; also, there was nowhere else to go. Eliza won our coconuts, and seemed to enjoy it. I had rather the feeling of having left all that kind of thing behind me, myself, an said so.

Eliza and I decided almost unanimously for an early tea and a pleasant drive home to a quiet evening. The elderly gentleman joined us at tea and offered me brandy and soda-water at his expense.

“Thank you,” I said, “but when I am going to handle the ribbons I like to keep my head as clear as possible.”

He said that he thought I was right. He really made himself most useful and obliging when we were leaving. There was a good deal of confusion through so many vehicles being drawn up outside at the same time.

The return journey was a great surprise. I had expected that the horse going home would fly like the wind, and that I should have difficulty in holding him. It was not so at all. He seemed reluctant to start, and I could never get him beyond a very slow trot; three or four times he seemed on the point of stopping altogether. Mr. Percy Jennings had told me that I should never want the whip, but I felt constrained to make a moderate use of it, and, really, it seemed to cause no improvement at all. The farther we went the worse the horse got, till it seemed to be less trouble to let him walk, which I did. About a mile from home Eliza pointed out to me that the horse was going very much down on one side, and very much up on the other.

“Ah!” I said, “then he’s gone lame. That accounts for everything. I shall have to blow Jennings up about this. Still, as it is a valuable animal, we perhaps had better get out and lead him the rest of the way. Personally, I shall be glad to stretch my legs.”

Eliza, who is, perhaps, a little inclined to grumble at every trifle, said that anything was better than some kinds of driving, and joined me in the road. We walked slowly back, and had to put up with many silly, and even personal, remarks from those who met us. Some of them whistled the “Dead March,” which was not only quite inappropriate, but, in my opinion, actually blasphemous. I suppose one must not expect the best taste from these Bank Holiday crowds. I made no reply. I could have said a good deal, but, being with a lady, I wished to avoid any fracas.

Eliza left me when we reached our house. She said that I could take the horse and cart back to the yard while she went in and helped the girl to get supper.

Mr. Percy Jennings was standing in the yard when I led the horse in.

“What’s all this?” he said.

“That’s what I want to know,” I replied rather sharply. “This horse that you made so much fuss about was not fit for work. He’s dead lame. No fault of ours. I can assure you we—”

“Oh, shut up!” he said offensively. Then he called “Jim!” and some kind of ostler person appeared.

He gave Jim some orders, and I heard enough to realize what had happened. Jim was to ride off at once to the Lion at Winthorpe and bring Tommy back if he was still in the stables there. If not, he was to find out where the horse had gone and follow him up, let the police know, and not come back without him. Neither of them took the least notice of me. I did put in a question once or twice, but they went on just as if I had never spoken at all. I am not the man to put up with disrespect. I was much annoyed. As soon as Jim had gone off, I said:

“And now, perhaps, you can give me a few minutes of your attention, Mr. Jennings. It seems through some mistake on the part of the stable people at the Lion I have brought back the wrong horse. Naturally, I disclaim all responsibility for their blunder.”

“Oh, go away!” said Mr. Jennings. “I’ll talk to you when you’re sober.”

“I am perfectly sober, and I’ll thank you not to venture to dare to—”

“Then, if you’re sober — and I don’t say you are, but if you are — you must be a bigger fool than ever I took you for. You drive out my best horse, worth a hundred and twenty to me, and you bring back this dying cripple, worth what the knacker will give for him tomorrow. I tell you if I don’t get my own horse back you’ll have to pay that fifty. I’ve got your name and address, and your employer’s name and address; and that won’t half make it up to me. Worst day’s work I’ve ever done, this is. Oh, don’t stand gaping there! Get out of the yard! Get out of my sight!”

I have not reported this speech exactly as it was spoken. Before every noun a certain adjective — always the same — was inserted. I have omitted that adjective.

“I am extremely sorry for the error,” I said with dignity.

He said that he didn’t want my (same adjective) sorrow.

“But in future,” I continued, “all communications between us must be through our respective solicitors.” I rather wish now that I had not said that. The horse was never recovered, and my solicitor could only get the claim down to £34 (£10 cash, and the rest in weekly instalments). I feel that I could have done as much as that myself; and as it was I had to pay the solicitor.

But at the time my blood was up, and I did not very much care what I said — as long as it showed him that I was not to be played with.

Mr. Jennings then made a remark about our respective solicitors which cannot be further particularized.

I, personally, simply swung round on my heel and walked right out of the yard.

•   •   •

I am willing to admit that I had some apprehensions as to the way in which Eliza would take this. In one way she took it far better than I expected.

Let me take an instance. A few days before, being in a playful mood, I sprang out at her from behind a door in order to make her jump. She did jump — and so far I suppose the thing was a success. But she also dropped and broke a vase — a pretty little thing, representing a boot, with maidenhair fern growing over it She quite lost her temper, and said things which I trust and believe she regretted afterwards.

But now, when the loss was far more considerable, she was much quieter. It would be idle to say that she was cheerful about it, but she never once said it was all my fault. On the contrary, she said it was all her own fault — because she had known all along I had got the wrong horse, but she said nothing about it because she knew that she knew nothing about horses.

I thought she was wrong in saying that the man who stole our horse was the elderly man who had entered into conversation with me, and made himself so pleasant, and that he had done his utmost to bustle us and confuse us when we were leaving the hotel.

But I did not argue the point. I did not feel much like arguing about anything. One of my favourite hymns points out that the roseate hues of early dawn vanish far more quickly than a beginner might suppose. So it had been with my increasing income. What with the extra expenses that we had already incurred and this serious blow, we were now in much the same position that we had been the year before.

I paid the £10 in cash to Mr. Jennings at once. The solicitor thought it would be better. Fortunately, I had some money in hand at the time, and the balance, £8 15s., I borrowed from Eliza’s mother. There is one drop of sugar in the darkest cloud — I found an opportunity to sell the flannel trousers at very little under cost.

THE BURGLAR

Eliza’s mother having written to us that she was confined to the house with a severe cold, Eliza said that she would go up to London and spend the day with her, sleeping there that night. There was, of course, the railway fare to be considered, and I did not forget it, but Eliza’s mother had just obliged with the £8 15s. required to make up the first payment to Jennings. Besides, she is a lonely old woman, and I know what severe colds are myself, so I raised no objections. On the contrary, I went out and bought an ounce and a half of liquorice ju-jubes — which frequently give relief to the throat — and sent them by Eliza as a present from me. I felt sure she would appreciate the kindly thought.

Left alone, I spent the evening in going round the house polishing the brass door-handles. Our girl habitually neglects them, and I hoped in this way to make her ashamed of herself. I also cut and folded a few paper spills. It is difficult to get Eliza to use them, but I think them a wise economy myself.

The girl went up to bed at half-past nine. I then drew myself a glass of beer and made myself comfortable in the dining-room. I sat in the easy-chair with one leg thrown over the arm, and smoked my pipe and read the evening paper. It quite brought back to my mind my gay bachelor days, One went the pace rather then. It has been well observed that young men are thoughtless. At ten I saw that the front and back were properly secured and the windows fastened, and was soon in bed and asleep.

An hour later I was awakened by a sound. It was the sound of a man’s laugh, and it appeared to me to come from the kitchen, I realized at once that something must be wrong — that a burglar had forced an entrance. I did not for one moment lose my presence of mind. Stealthily and on tip-toe, I crept to the window and peeped out. There was a light coming from the kitchen below, and my suspicions were confirmed. Undoubtedly my best and wisest course would then have been to have locked and barricaded the door of my room, opened the window, and called loudly for the police, who are the proper people to deal with cases of this kind. But I saw that this might be misunderstood, and I determined on taking pretty vigorous action at once, come what might, so I slipped on some warmer and more adequate clothing, Knocked over the fire-irons to attract the attention of the burglar below, and then opened my door and called sharply:

“Who’s there?”

The sounds in the kitchen ceased.

I shouted again.

“I must request an answer, please.”

There was a sound of a chair being pushed back and of quick footsteps. Then the back door slammed. The burglar had evidently gone. I went to the top of the stairs, and then I fancied I still heard someone moving in the kitchen.

“Who’s there?” I called once more. “Reply instantly, please.”

“Only me, sir,” said the girl’s voice.

“Has the burglar gone?”

“What burglar? Oh yes, he’s gone, sir. I heard him, and came down to catch him, and while I was making up my mind you called, sir, and that frightened him. He’s gone, all right.”

I went down at once. It was evident that two people had had supper there. A piece of cold bacon that we generally have at breakfast had been shamefully cut into. Bread and butter had been used simply ad libitum. There were also two empty beer-bottles which the men must have brought with them, as we have no bottled beer in the house.

“Why, then,” I said, “there must have been two burglars!”

“It do seem like it,” she said.

She appeared very stupid and confused and slightly hysterical. I was pleased to find that the burglars had taken nothing except the food they had eaten. A careful examination of the back door did not show that the lock had been forced in any way. But a skeleton key would probably do its work without leaving any trace. Nor could I discover by what ingenious process the bolts had been drawn back from the outside. Burglars are extremely clever in these things. A well-known London magistrate once observed that if they would only use their cleverness for some honest work it would be more satisfactory; the same thought has often occurred to me.

“Well,” I said to the girl, “it is a pity that when you heard the noise and came down you had not the courage to dash into the kitchen and to secure one of the men. By waiting until I was practically on my way down you have allowed them both to escape. What you must do now is to go out at once and fetch a policeman.”

She said that she dared not for the life of her, as the burglars might be still hanging round the house. I had almost decided to go for the police myself, but it seemed cruel to leave the girl alone in the house in her present condition, and as nothing of value had been taken, I thought I would leave it until I could have a word or two with Eliza, who was coming back in time for breakfast in the morning. However, I made a note of the address on the beer-bottles and took careful measurements of a footprint that I found just outside the back door. When I got back to bed the excitement still kept me awake. It was not till it grew light that I dropped off for an hour.

•   •   •

Eliza said very little when I told her the story. She said it was a funny thing for burglars to come to a house of our kind, where there was nothing to get, and that they couldn’t have known much. She also said that putting your head outside the door and shouting was not the best way to catch burglars, according to her ideas.

“Well,” I said, when I had finished the story, “what do you make of it? What would be the right course to take now?”

For a few moments Eliza said nothing, and seemed to be thinking. Then she asked me how the girl was dressed. “Had she just put on the first thing that came handy?”

“No; she was most properly and decently dressed. She probably had guessed that I should come down. I thought that showed a certain amount of presence of mind in her.”

“Blue dress?”

“Yes, I believe it was.”

“Curl-papers in her hair?”

“No.”

“Right. It’s just as well you’ve got somebody with sense in her head to look after you. I’ll step into the kitchen and sack that girl at once.”

“But she did her best. The burglar—”

“There never was any burglar. That blue’s her best Sunday dress, and she’d got her hair done. And if I can’t leave the place for a single night but what she must have her young man in to supper at all hours of the night, she and me had better part. Why, it ain’t respectable.”

Eliza went into the kitchen. She was angry, and so, apparently, was the girl. In fact, the noise in the kitchen was much in excess of what I can approve. From what I overheard, it appeared that Eliza’s surmise was correct. The girl said she didn’t see why she shouldn’t enjoy herself the same as others, and the sooner she went the better she would like it; and that anybody would have thought the rotten bacon was pearls and diamonds, for the fuss that was made about it.

The girl left that morning. We had some difficulty in replacing her, and for some days it was necessary for me to clean the boots myself, which went rather against the grain with me. However, we are now suited.

The surprising thing to me is that I did not see the truth of the matter before. The mere fact of the loud laugh should have convinced me that it could not have been a burglar. I was a little too much the man of action. Another time I shall make a point of reflecting before taking any strong measures.

BY ARRANGEMENT

When Jollibut at the corner shop was sold up — which I had seen long before was bound to come — I attended the sale. It was Saturday afternoon, and there was nothing else to do. I asked Eliza to come with me, and I asked her more than once, but she said she had only one pair of hands, and no time for gaieties. If she had been there, I should certainly have consulted her before bidding for the music-stool. Also, it was never my intention to buy the music-stool at all. Thirdly, if not necessary, the music-stool was useful. And, lastly, it was exceedingly cheap; and, as I told Eliza, if I had walked into a London shop and even attempted to buy a walnut music-stool, upholstered in old-gold velveteen, with the screw in working order, at that price, the man behind the counter would simply have laughed in my face. And this being so, I cannot think that Eliza was justified in saying all that she did. But there, what woman is strictly logical? Very few are, I am afraid. I have often noticed that men seem to see things that women don’t.

I went there because, in a way, I was sorry for Jollibut. The corner shop had failed twice previously, both times in the general and fancy. When Jollibut had the front painted white, and started a boot and shoe emporium, with one corner curtained off in peacock blue to ensure privacy for customers who were trying on, I could see for myself that he was flying too high for the neighbourhood. And then the girls — three of them — were dressed far beyond their station, and beyond their father’s means. I was not surprised when the blow fell.

My bid for the music-stool was made from conscientiousness and good feeling. It seems to me that a man who attends an auction and never makes a bid is there under false pretences. I made two bids. The first was for a set of four oleographs, practically indistinguishable from oil paintings, in massive gilt frames. One of them, I remember, was a marvellously lifelike study of a large slice of Dutch cheese on an Oriental plate, with some walnuts and a knot of pink ribbon in the foreground. I should not have been sorry to have purchased these pictures, but they went far beyond my limit. I did not make another bid until almost at the end, when few people were left. Then the music-stool came on, and I said two shillings. I said it to justify my presence, and to encourage the auctioneer. I was greatly surprised that no other bid was made. However, no great harm was done.

But Eliza was very short about it, and said it was wicked folly, when we had one music-stool already, and no use for another, and coals at the price they were. I said that I was, unfortunately, unable to alter the price of coals, and that we would defer the discussion until she was in another temper. She persisted, however, in keeping on at it, and at supper I had to refuse to speak at all, merely pointing at the butter when I wished her to pass it. She then said she didn’t understand the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, and I had to get up and get it myself. It was a most unpleasant evening.

“And now you’ve got the blessed thing,” said Eliza, when the music-stool came home, “you don’t know what to do with it. You’d better go off to another auction and buy a hundred-guinea grand piano. Go on. We can afford it.”

“Pardon me,” I said. “I know perfectly well what to do with it.”

“Then what do you sit staring at it for?”

“I was merely thinking how to use it in the most artistic and effective manner. I am going to show you what can be done by arrangement — simply by a little arrangement. And I think it will please you. Kindly refrain from entering the drawing-room until I call.”

I carried the music-stool into the drawing-room and shut the door. I placed the stool in the window overlooking the street. This window has lace curtains joined at the top and caught back below, leaving a space which had always seemed to me to want something. On the stool I placed our large atlas, to which we seldom have occasion to refer. I completely covered the atlas and the top of the stool with a handsome Turkish antimacassar that had been a present from Miss Sakers, and on the table thus formed I put a large geranium, the pot standing in a pretty saucer with a view of Cromer on it.

Then I opened the door and called to Eliza. “Now, if you will step in,” I said, “I think you will admit that a considerable improvement has been effected in your drawing-room. The stool now has exactly the appearance of one of the low occasional tables that you find in the art furniture shops. I do not suppose I could have bought such a table under a guinea.”

She admitted that it seemed all right, and turned up the Turkish antimacassar.

“But it don’t bear looking into,” she added.

“And,” I said, “it is not the custom for visitors to a house to look into things. It would be exceedingly ill-bred of them to do so. So that argument falls to the ground. The geranium shows now as it never did before, and it has all been effected by a little talent for arrangement. I wish you had more of it, Eliza.”

•   •   •

As I said to Eliza after the accident had happened, she had only herself to thank. I had merely arranged the things; it was, naturally, for her to see that the arrangement was made permanent, and that the atlas was firmly secured to the top of the stool by string or some other suitable manner. At least, the girl might have been warned about it; as it was, when she began dusting in her rough-and-ready way, of course the whole thing went over. I still fail to see why she put her foot on the geranium and broke it in two. She said it was all done before she knew what had happened.

“However,” I added, “I will take the music-stool and try some other kind of arrangement which will, perhaps, be more successful.”

“Well, you can’t have it,” said Eliza.

“And why not?”

“She’s done—”

“Who’s done?”

“The girl. She’s done nothing but complain about there being no chair in her bedroom. She says she was never in a place before where there was no chair. So I just took and gave her that music-stool.”

“So a polished walnut music-stool, upholstered in old-gold velveteen, and worth, perhaps, thirty or forty shillings if purchased in the usual channels is a suitable object of furniture or a servant’s bedroom, especially when by her own act of carelessness she has just occasioned us a serious pecuniary loss. I will only say that I was not aware of it. I will merely point out that—”

At this moment we were startled by a scream and the sound of something falling heavily in the room above us.

“Here! I must see what that is,” said Eliza.

She came back in a minute or two.

“It was the girl,” she said. “She’s not much hurt. She was hanging an illuminated text on the wall of her room, and got up on the stool to do it; only the jerk she gave it in getting up sent the top round, and she fell off. She might have known that it worked on a screw.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, “but is the music-stool injured?”

“Music-stool! Death-trap, I call it! No, that’s not hurt. One of the silliest things you ever bought, that was.”

•   •   •

I said no more about it until the following evening, and then I asked pleasantly:

“Well. Eliza, do you think still that a handsome music-stool is quite in its place in a servant’s bedroom?”

“Never did think so. Only what were you to do with it?”

“If you will bring it down to the drawing-room, I will show you what can be done with it by arrangement. No, I am not thinking about an occasional table again. It is something quite different. I propose to treat it as a pedestal — to put it on the top of the piano, draped with, say, a Turkish antimacassar, and have the bust of Beethoven that we got from your Uncle Hector on the top of it; and I think that the general appearance will—”

“Oh, well, you can’t have it.”

“And why not?”

“I was out this afternoon, and I came on a second-hand shop where they’ll take anything.”

“Well?”

“Well, they’ve taken that music-stool. I got an old chair for it — good enough for the girl’s room — and a bit of linoleum that’ll come in for the upstairs passage.”

“Then, Eliza, I can only say that you have very much exceeded your prerogative.”

“I knew it would make you swear. But the girl said she wouldn’t stop in a place with a thing that worked round under you like that. To my mind, you ought to be thankful we’ve come out of it no worse. Just you come along upstairs and help me put that bit of lino down.”

MISS JERNINGHAM

I admit that I was not displeased when Eliza told me that Miss Sakers wished to bring her friend Miss Jerningham to call on us one afternoon. But I did not like the way Eliza smiled and said we were getting on in the world. It seemed to me so undignified.

“Very well,” I said; “I suppose we must take Miss Sakers’ word for it that her friend is a lady, and a fit person for us to receive in our social circle.”

“Don’t you be too rash about it,” said Eliza in rather a nasty way. “I’ll write for her pedigree and a reference from two clergymen, and you run up to the police-station and see if they know anything against her. Can’t be too careful about that social circle, you know.”

“There is no occasion for any remarks of that kind,” I said. “It may be that I have a certain amount of pride. Possibly I am a little particular about the people whom I choose to know. If it is so, I am not ashamed of it.”

“Well, I think it’s silly. Here’s Miss Sakers trying to act in a friendly way, and you go setting yourself up. You’ve not got any social circle, and you know it. And you might be more grateful for kindness.”

“Why should I be grateful? I have not the least doubt that I have met many people far higher in position than this Miss Jerningham. At the same time, if she comes I will do my best to entertain her in a proper manner. I suppose it will be a case of tea?”

“No, not a case. Extra spoonful. That’s if they stop for it. Don’t you worry.”

It seemed to me a mere waste of time to continue the discussion while Eliza was in this frame of mind. I went up to the bedroom and employed myself far more profitably in tacking up a couple of Japanese fans to hide the spots where the damp had come through the wallpaper.

•   •   •

At breakfast next morning I said cheerfully:

“And on what day are we to have the pleasure of welcoming Miss Jerningham to this neighbourhood?”

“Miss Sakers didn’t say any particular day.”

“That is a little thoughtless of Miss Sakers. She must be perfectly well aware that a certain amount of preparation is required if the thing is to be a success.”

“They’ll just drop in — unless they happen to think better of it. You are such a born worrier.”

“But they cannot think better of it. I quite understood from you that it was a definite agreement.”

“Miss Sakers said she would like to bring her friend, and I said we should be glad to see her. But this Miss Jerningham may not care about it. It’s easy enough to say she had a cold, or felt too tired. This house isn’t much of a place to look at.”

“This house is small, and does not represent the summit of my tastes and ambitions, but there is nothing repellent about it. The venetians are not broken in our drawing-room window, as they are at St. Mildred’s, nor are our steps in the disgraceful condition which is apparently habitual at ‘Daisy Mead.’ At least we compare favourably with our neighbours.”

“Well, you never know. It seems this Miss Jerningham is connected with a titled family. Very likely she won’t think it worth-while. Anyhow, you needn’t worry about it. The chances are that, if they do come, it will be one day when you are away in the City.”

“I should regret that, because I wish to show you that I am not so stand-offish as you supposed yesterday. As things stand, you must be prepared any day. I should suggest one of Stodger and Sands’ ‘ever-ready fruit cakes.’ You can tell the girl not to take it out of the tinfoil until the moment comes. The fire in the drawing-room must, I fear, be lit every day, but three in the afternoon will be soon enough. It would have been more reasonable of Miss Sakers to have fixed a day. A few chrysanthemums, I think; they last a long time if proper attention is given. And—”

“Do you know what the time is?” asked Eliza.

I glanced at the clock, and dashed off at once. I just caught the train.

All day in the City I had the impression that Miss Jerningham would call that day. We were very slack in the office, and I managed to return home rather earlier than usual.

As I entered the house I saw the girl in the passage, and said in a whisper:

“Any ladies called?”

“No,” said the girl.

“Anything come from Stodger and Sands’?”

“Yes, sir — this.”

She gave me an envelope. It was merely a trifling account for some articles that we had purchased there at different times, accompanied by a very uncivil letter.

“Fire lit in the drawing-room?”

“No, sir. And none ordered.”

I went straight into the drawing-room and lit the fire myself. Then I went into the passage and called sharply up to Eliza.

“What’s the matter now?” she said as she came down the stairs.

“The matter is that Miss Jerningham may be here any minute, and I| find the fire in the drawing-room not lit — I have just lit it myself — no flowers in the vases, and apparently no preparation of any kind made. I take the trouble to a definitely what is required and yet I find nothing done.”

“I’d a card from Miss Sakers by the second post to say that she and Miss Jerningham would come on Saturday. Next Saturday, you know. Three days on ahead. And you’ve lit the fire in the drawing-room!”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve just time to remove the coals before they catch.”

I went into the drawing-room and did so. If I had burned the whole place down, Eliza could hardly have said more than she did.

•   •   •

The tea was fairly satisfactory. Miss Jerningham seemed to me to be a pleasant person of about forty, but not exactly beautiful. The pince-nez which she wore to correct her squint was not entirely successful in that respect, but it certainly gave her a distinguished appearance. Both she and Miss Sakers talked principally to Eliza, and I had rather the feeling that I was being left out of it.

Also a slight accident happened to me, which I took with a smile at the time, though it might have been dangerous. When our visitors had gone, I took another cress sandwich, and said:

“I have no wish to make myself unpleasant, Eliza, but unless you can speak very seriously to that girl I must do it myself. I might have injured myself severely.”

“It was nothing to do with the girl. You took that chair, and, of course, it went down.”

“The chair was not in its proper place. It’s proper place is in the corner behind the wickerwork fern-stand, where nobody can sit on it.”

“Well, you would have the whole room turned out this morning, and, of course, the girl got it mixed up with the others. It looks just like the rest. It’s only when you sit on it that the leg comes off. My word! I never saw Miss Sakers laugh so much in my life before.”

“Possibly it would have been in better taste if she had laughed less. People have been crippled for life by similar accidents. Miss Jerningham’s behaviour was much quieter. There’s a certain style about that lady. I think I could have guessed, even if you had not told me, that she belonged to a titled family.”

“I said she was connected with a titled family. Pugley the name is; he was Mayor of somewhere or other, and got knighted, and Miss Jerningham is governess to the children. But he’s taken to drink to such an extent now that she’s leaving.”

I did not pursue the subject. It has been very well and truly observed that rank without moral worth is dross.

THE GLOVES

We had talked about it before church and afterwards, and had really got no further. When I brought it down to the plain question, “If it was not the girl, who was it?” Eliza would give no answer and turned obstinate.

At dinner I flung myself back in my chair.

“It simply comes to this,” I said: “You are asking me to believe that a pair of practically new dogskin gloves have wings and can fly away.”

“Pass the mustard, please,” said Eliza moodily.

“That’s nothing at all to do with it.”

“Never said it had, did I? (And I said ‘pass the mustard,’ not ‘chuck’ it.) You’ve gone and put them somewhere.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m not the kind of man that goes and puts things somewhere.”

“Yes, you do, You’ve just put your sleeve in the gravy.”

•   •   •

This changed the conversation for the time. I was much irritated, and with good reason, it being a new coat and the first time on. I did what could be done at the moment with warm water, and subsequently a little benzine put the matter right. Still, it was just one more annoyance.

“Now,” I said, “let us return to the subject of those gloves. You say I put them somewhere. I did. I put them Where I always put them, at the back of the top left-hand drawer of the chest on which the looking-glass stands. That is where they were put last Sunday; this Sunday they are not there. Why?”

“Perhaps you took them out during the week.”

“You ought to know me well enough by this time, Eliza, to know that never in my wildest moments should I dream of wearing my Sunday gloves on a weekday. I do not lay claim to much, but I think I have method in small things. And if I did not take them, and you did not take them, the girl must have taken them.”

“Well, why should she?”

“Why should she take a number of the Home Helper, a copy that had been lent to us, and that I had not finished reading, and use it for the kitchen fire? Yet we know that she did that. It was proved, and she confessed it. If you sit there and refuse to act, I must.”

I rose and rang the bell sharply.

“I want you,” I said to the girl, “to bring me the gloves that you wear when you do the grates in the morning.”

She stood blinking and staring at me as if she did not know what I meant.

“You understand?” I said. “The gloves that you wear when you do the grates in the morning. I wish to see them.”

“I don’t wear none.”

“Ah!” I said. “Then, that’s all.”

•   •   •

Eliza said it was difficult enough to get a girl to stop anyhow, and that if I went upsetting and interfering and messing about like that she really didn’t know what she would do.

“I have no wish,” I said, “to upset, nor to interfere, nor to mess about. But I paid one and eleven-pence for those gloves, and have only worn them a few times, and I choose to regard their disappearance as a serious matter.”

“Well, you see the girl hadn’t got them.”

“I am by no means so sure of that. She looked guilty, and she looked frightened.”

“Well, when a man acts as if he’d gone clean off his head it’s no wonder—”

“Excuse me, but the order I gave her was a perfectly reasonable one, and I am not going to let the matter stop here. You may think that a sum of nearly two shillings is a mere nothing, and that we can afford to throw it in the gutter, but I don’t agree with you. The loss of those gloves has completely put me out. I was compelled to go to church this morning in a pair that was quite out of keeping and entirely spoiled my appreciation of the service.”

“I noticed that it hadn’t done you much good,” said Eliza.

“And,” I continued, “that kind of thing cannot go on. I will have my things treated with proper respect, and — mark my words — if gloves are taken one day, and nothing is done about it, something else will be taken the next. You say that the girl is honest. I say that in houses where the girl is honest new pairs of dogskin gloves do not suddenly vanish in this fashion. If she has not taken them for her work, she has taken them to sell or to give away. You can’t stop me, Eliza. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. Apart from mere personal feelings, it is my plain duty as master of this house to—”

Here I suddenly observed that Eliza had left the room. It was not too polite, considering that I was speaking.

She returned in a minute with the gloves in her hand.

“There you are,” she said. “Left in the pocket of the coat you wore last Sunday and put away for the summer.”

“You astonish me,” I said. “Did I really leave them there?”

“Oh no!” she said bitterly. “Of course not! The King of Timbuctoo left them on the grand piano. Another time, before you accuse people of stealing your precious gloves, you might—”

“Come, Eliza,” I said, “this is Sunday, and there is no occasion for you to lose your temper. I must say that I am surprised I can have left them there, and I am very glad you found them. It was quite a happy idea of yours. As the girl will be coming in to clear, shall we step into the drawing-room and try over a few hymns?”

THE INVITATION

I had bought Eliza as a present a packet of pale green correspondence cards with envelopes to match, the envelopes being stamped with the initial “E” in bronze on the flap. She said it was kind of me, and thanked me and asked what she was to use them for.

“You will use them, as their name implies, for correspondence.”

“I never write to anybody except to mother, and she wouldn’t half like it if I sent her one of those.”

“And why not?”

“Looks too showy. Looks as if we’re spending money on luxuries; and, of course, when she has to lend the money — well, that’s how it is.”

“I cannot admit,” I said, “that because your mother has occasionally obliged us, as you say, she is therefore free to dictate to us what style we are to adopt in writing materials, But, however, there are other letters which you might write. It would be no bad thing if you practised the art of letter-writing a little more than you do; in fact, that was in my mind when I bought these cards.”

“Still, when you’ve got nobody to write to and nothing to say—”

“I can tell you at once offhand a letter which I wish you to write. Pagram is alone at present, his wife and children being at his mother’s. It would be a kindness to ask him to come in to supper next Sunday.”

“All right. Certainly ask him. But what’s that got to do with letter-writing?”

“Merely that I wish you to write the invitation. That is simple enough.”

“But why don’t you ask him yourself? You see him every day at the station. That doesn’t want any letter.”

“There is a right way and a wrong way of doing everything, Eliza. Invitations to dinner should be written, and should be written by the hostess. Strictly speaking, three weeks’ notice should be given.”

“His wife and the kids will be back before then. Besides, you said next Sunday.”

“Quite so. I don’t press the point about the notice. But you must certainly write the invitation.”

“And what am I to say?”

“The correct form would be to say that you will be pleased to have the pleasure of his company at supper on Sunday next.”

“All right. It beats me how you ever came to know these things, seeing what you are and always have been.”

“Then, you will take one of those cards at once and—”

“I can’t do it now. I was going through the wash when you called me down, and I like to finish one job before I begin another. And the way that steam-laundry tears everything to me is something wicked. I do believe I shall have to give them up.”

However, she promised to write the invitation first thing the next morning, and with that I had to be satisfied.

•   •   •

On my return from the City next day I called up the stairs: “What about that letter, Eliza? Have you done it?”

“What do you want to ask for? I said I would, didn’t I? Of course I’ve done it.”

I stepped into the dining-room, and there on the table by the ink-stand lay Eliza’s letter, unstamped, the envelope not even addressed. A little thing like that often makes me mad. It seemed as if the only way to get anything done was to do it myself. I addressed the letter, stamped it, and posted it, and then went up to have it out with Eliza.

“Look here, Eliza,” I said: “I’ve got to speak to you rather seriously. It seems to me you’re going beyond the limit; there’s more than one way of telling a lie.”

“Don’t you dare to use that language to me,” said Eliza. “Why, what are you talking about?”

“I asked you if you’d written that letter to Pagram. You said you had.”

“So I did.”

“But you’d not posted it. You’d not even addressed the envelope. You might just as well not have written it.”

“Then it’s you and not me that’s telling the lies. Why, I dropped that letter into the box with my own hands before you’d been gone from the house an hour this morning.”

“Dear me!” I said. “Then I’m afraid there’s been a mistake somewhere; I saw one of those green envelopes with the initial lying on the dining-room table. It was fastened up, and I naturally concluded that it was the invitation. What was it then?”

“None of your business; it was for the manageress at the laundry. They’ve torn a lot of embroidery off — well, never mind — something of mine, and I wrote to ask her what she was going to do about it.”

“I’m really extremely sorry, Eliza. I’m afraid I’ve been rather too hasty. I took it for granted it was the letter to Pagram, and I addressed and posted it.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid I posted it.”

Eliza sat down.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I write a letter to a laundry about a particularly private thing, and you go and post it off to one of your men friends. Go it! Don’t ask me to look him in the face again, though, because I won’t. Now go and get yourself shut up in an asylum before you do any more harm.”

Making every allowance for her irritation, which was, perhaps, not unnatural, and even in a sense did her credit, that was not the way to speak to me, and I said so. She was asking me in rather a loud tone of voice if I would kindly hold my silly tongue, when the front bell rang.

It was Pagram. He had got Eliza’s note, and said that, as he happened to be passing, he thought he would look in to thank us and say he’d be glad to wag a knife and fork with us on Sunday. In strict etiquette he should have replied in writing, and I do not quite like his familiar way of speaking, but, still, I was very glad he called. I explained to him my mistake, and asked him to return the letter unopened. “As a matter of fact,” I said, “it was a letter of Eliza’s that simply had to deal—”

“Dealing with the character of a servant,” interrupted Eliza. It was a direct falsehood, but under the circumstances I let it pass.

THE FUNERAL

The late Mrs. Arthur Magsworth died at the age of one hundred and two. She was — with the exception of false teeth — in full possession of her faculties until the last. For the last twenty years she had lived at Bellevue, 13 Gladstone Villas, Plumley Heath, and on her decease the Plumley Heath Advertiser, in commenting on her great age, rather raised the question whether human life is not showing a tendency towards prolongation. There were only a few lines, but thoughtful and well expressed.

Neither Eliza nor I had the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Arthur Magsworth, but she had been for many years an intimate friend of Eliza’s mother. They had much the same tastes, and they suffered from the same complaints, which is in itself a kind a bond. Indeed, one of Eliza’s first observations on hearing of this sad affair was, “Mother will feel this.” I understood from Eliza that everything was to go to the nephew, George Magsworth and there might be some small memento for her mother.

On the same day we had a letter from Eliza’s mother, regretting that her precarious health prevented her from attending the funeral, and saying that she had sent an anchor composed of white geraniums on moss. She wished Eliza to go in her place, and had spoken to George Magsworth about it. She added in a postscript: “This being on my account, I should insist on paying second return Plumley Heath.”

“Nothing seems to be said about my accompanying you,” I observed. “I don’t know how far that’s taken for granted.”

“If mother had meant two second returns, I think she’d have said so,” said Eliza. “But I don’t think she’d stick at that, and, I suppose, being Saturday morning, you could get off all right. I think you ought to come. It’s not often you get any little — well, any little outing.”

“I agree with you, Eliza,” I said. “I think it is natural and right for a man to accompany his wife on these melancholy and trying occasions. She feels then that she has something to lean upon.”

Eliza said that she didn’t suppose she would want much pore , but that it would be more social if we went together. I reminded her that it was not the time for flippant expressions.

It is an understood thing at the office that I can have Saturday morning every now and then, and I made no bones about asking for it on this occasion, seeing what the cause was. Mr. Bagshawe gave me permission at once, and was kind enough to say that he hoped it was no near relation.

“Not very near,” I said. “It’s more on my wife’s side.” I also settled the question of the ticket by writing to Eliza’s mother to say that I wished to show my respect for the deceased by accompanying Eliza in the rendering of this last tribute, but that I should, of course, expect to pay for my own ticket. On Saturday morning, just as we were starting, we got her reply, which was quite satisfactory on the question of the ticket, and expressed a hope that we would share her midday meal with her on our way back through town. That also was all to the good.

We had some time to wait at Waterloo. In fact, our train was nearly half an hour late in starting. I fancy there must have been some race-meeting on, for there was quite a crowd on the platforms, and field-glasses and sporting papers seemed to be everywhere. However, we got off at last, and I said to Eliza that I was afraid we should miss the first part of the service. However, as Eliza pointed out, it was not our fault, and we could not control the trains. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and had we been on a less melancholy errand it might have seemed enjoyable. Eliza wore a black sailor hat, black skirt, and her black mackintosh. She is a little too inclined to wear that mackintosh on all occasions, but it served to hide the fact that her blouse was of a pale pink colour. My own mourning hat-band and my black gloves I had by me from a previous funeral. As far as clothes went, we neither of us had to spend a penny. This was satisfactory.

“I wonder,” I aid “if when I am laid to my last rest, there will be many to pay one final—”

Here Eliza, who had been looking out of the window — I had not noticed that when I began to speak — drew in her head, and said, if she lived right close to the line like that, she would be ashamed to have her back-yard in the state those were.

At this moment the train stopped for ten minutes. Then it went on for a little and stopped again. After that stoppages became frequent, and I saw how it would be. We arrived at Plumley Heath long after the funeral was over, and only just in time to catch our train back.

We explained it all to Eliza’s mother, and she was most reasonable about it. She said she would write to George Magsworth about it, and he must at any rate give us credit for our good intentions. He had sent her, in accordance with the deceased lady’s wishes, a handsome and massive silver cream-jug and a pair of opera-glasses with bag and strap complete. I have seldom seen Eliza’s mother in better spirits or showing to better advantage than she did that day. She insisted on handing me a sovereign for our expenses, though I told her that they had not nearly amounted to that, and she made Eliza a present of the opera-glasses. We then sat down to an elegant and substantial repast, and I asked one or two riddles which were well received.

We left about half-past three to walk to the station. I had removed my hat, and was carrying Eliza’s mackintosh over my arm. The funeral being now over, there seemed to be no occasion to keep the thing on.

Eliza said she would rather like to try her new opera-glasses. We happened to be passing the Frivolity at the time. I said that, if she cared to look in for an hour, there would be enough change from the sovereign to pay for cheap seats.

It was a good performance. I was especially struck with the Bartini Brothers, who did several things on the high trapeze that (as I remarked to Eliza) I should have been very sorry to have attempted myself. On her return home Eliza said that she had thoroughly enjoyed her day.

“That may be so in a kind of a sense,” I answered; “but we must not and cannot forget its melancholy associations.”

•   •   •

On the Monday morning a message was brought me that Mr. Bagshawe wished to see me in his private room. I went in at once.

“I saw you on your way back from the funeral yesterday,” he said.

“Yes, sir? I had not the pleasure of seeing you.”

“No. You were going into a music-hall with a lady in pink, and you were still wearing your race-glasses.”

The race-glasses were, of course, Eliza’s opera-glasses. Appearances must have been rather against me.

“I think,” I said, “that I can explain what must have looked like—”

“Don’t you trouble. That don’t want any explanation. Next time, though, that you want to go to a funeral I’ll ask you to put a sovereign on for me. Now get back to your work.”

And under this thoroughly unjust imputation I labour till this day.

THE LEAK

“I have a nose,” I said coldly, “and it is not merely ornamental.”

“Nobody says that you haven’t got a nose,” replied Eliza snappishly, “and nobody would call it ornamental, either. But if it was any use to you, you’d know that the leak isn’t here, but upstairs.”

“My dear Eliza, do let us talk common sense.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do this last half-hour. You go and get the plumber to come and stop the leak in the bedroom. Then that’ll be all right.”

“If I did, he would waste an hour — time for which I should be charged — trying to find a leak which was not there. That is not my idea of common sense. I shall instruct him that the leak is here in the dining-room, and direct his attention particularly to the gas-bracket on the left of the fireplace.”

“You go on. You do as much instructing and directing as you like. But as soon as the man comes he’ll be sent straight to the bedroom. It smells worse there, so that’s where the leak is; and I’m not going to have my wallpaper spoilt in here for no rhyme or reason.”

“It may be true that the smell is worst in the bedroom, but that happens to be another proof of my words. The gas, being lighter than air, rises and collects in the room overhead. I am sorry to say that the floors and ceilings in this house admit of such a thing easily happening. Perhaps you will explain how, when gas rises — you must remember that fact — we get the smell downstairs if the leak’s upstairs.”

“That’s the down-draught in the chimney brings the gas down. If we had fires, now, you wouldn’t get any smell of gas here at all; it would be all upstairs. Of course, as it comes down the chimney, it’s strongest near the fireplace, and that’s what sets you thinking about that bracket.”

“Pardon me, Eliza; that is not what sets me thinking about the bracket. Long before there was any actual leak that bracket was in my mind. It was in my mind when we took the house, I saw then that it was a cheap and bungling piece of work, and I knew we should get this trouble sooner or later in consequence. What I maintain is—”

“Oh, don’t you go on arguing and maintaining,” said Eliza, “or you won’t have time to look in at Timson’s on your way to the station. We’ll just leave it like this. You can tell him the leak’s in the scullery, or in the back-garden, or anywhere you like; and if I give this man a hint when he comes as to where the leak really is — well, that’s nothing to do with you, is it?”

“Yes, it has. I do not choose to be made a fool of in the eyes of Timson’s man. If I am not master in my own house, and it’s not for me to say where a gas leak is, at any rate I don’t wish every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the place to know it. But I’ll tell you what I will do. We will neither of us say anything to Timson or his man. We will leave them to find the leak, and I’ll bet you ten shillings it’s not in the bedroom.”

“I’m not going betting and gambling, for I know what it leads to, and I’ve heard you tell mother that you never bet, either, else I’d like to take that ten shillings from you.”

“Well, if you wish it, we will not bet; we will have a simple arrangement that if the gas leak is in the bedroom I will make you a present, and if it is in the dining-room I shall have a present from you.”

“There can’t be any harm in that,” said Eliza.

“There may, on the contrary, be great good in it: it may give you a sharp lesson against obstinate contradictoriness.”

“You mean, it may teach you not to be so silly. Now I’ll tell you what I want if I win.”

She named certain articles of wearing apparel, the total cost of which would be nine shillings. In the event of my winning, I decided upon a box of a hundred cigars at the same price. To my mind, no pipe, not even a meerschaum, has as good an appearance as a cigar. Unfortunately, cigars are not cheap, and never can be.

On my way to the station I looked in at Timson’s. I merely said: “There’s a gas leak up at my house — I wish you’d look into it for me.”

He said the matter should be put in hand that morning. Timson is a very civil fellow, and should do well. He never presses for money until the thing has run three months, and even then does it in a most delicate and gentlemanly way. And he always touches his hat.

•   •   •

When I returned from the City in the evening, I found Eliza looking very tired and depressed. The unpleasant smell had entirely disappeared.

“Ah!” I said playfully. “I’m afraid I shall not have the pleasure of presenting you with those — well, those articles of apparel to which I have already alluded.”

“No,” she said. “And you won’t get your cigars, either.”

“What do you mean? Hasn’t Timson’s man—”

“Timson’s man! Been here all day. Only just gone. The mess that room’s in upstairs! The girl’s cleaning it down now.”

“Where was the leak, then?”

“There wasn’t any. But how that old rat managed to get in between those joists is what beats me. He had the floor up, and I’ve had the carbolic down.”

“What! You mean it was a dead rat?”

“Yes. Oh, don’t talk about it! Timson’s man isn’t particular, but even he — well, I sent him up a jug of beer, and couldn’t do less. And he said to me when he was going that he didn’t know what money he’d made, but he’d swear he earned it.”

It was rather a curious thing that it should turn out like that. However, I happened to find a shilling in a bus the other day, and treated myself to ten of those cigars. I lit one up last Sunday night, and Eliza said suddenly that she couldn’t help thinking of that old rat. It reminded her, I suppose, of the present that she was to have made to me.

THE THERMOMETER

Eliza said that we did not want a thermometer.

“No,” I said, “we do not want a thermometer in the sense that we want bread to eat and clothes to wear, but it is an object generally to be found in the hall of a gentleman’s house, and is extremely useful besides. I think you are a little too prone to grumble and find fault.”

“I don’t grumble. I know that every now and then you’ve got to go out and buy some foolish thing that we don’t want any more than we want the moon. You’re like that, and it always happens some week when we’re short. If it hadn’t been a thermometer, it would have been something else. If you’re nailing it up in the passage, mind it’s somewhere where the girl can’t fetch up against it.”

“It is already nailed up, and it would be impossible to knock against it without first of all removing the umbrella-stand. Kindly instruct the girl that she is not to dust it. I will take entire charge of that myself. Her rough-and-ready way is not suitable for a scientific instrument.”

Eliza was about to reply, when there came a knock at the front door. It was merely Miss Sakers, who had called to see if we had anything for a jumble sale which she was organizing. She was unable to stay to tea — a little unfortunate, as there were crumpets in the house.

•   •   •

“If you had to buy something,” said Eliza, “it seems a pity you didn’t get one of those things that tells you what the weather’s going to be when you rap it.”

“You mean a barometer. That may come.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to buy anything else!”

“I had no such intention. I was only thinking that, if your mother was at all undecided what to do about Christmas, you might see your way. However, I could not have purchased a really good barometer for one shilling, which was all I paid for the thermometer. Nor do I see why a barometer would have been preferable.”

“Well, that’s simple enough. One tells you what you don’t know, and the other tells you what you do know. I don’t know what the weather’s going to be, but I know whether I’m warm enough without going and asking a thermometer.”

“But do you know what the temperature is on the grass outside at midnight or later?”

“No,” she said, “nor want. I don’t sleep on the grass outside.”

“Well, that,” I said, “is not the right spirit in which to look at it. I may add that the use of a thermometer in cases of illness is often absolutely essential.”

•   •   •

I little thought when I said those words that the very next Sunday would give me an opportunity to apply them. But so it happened. I awoke in the morning with a slight cold in the head.

“I shall remain in one room all day,” I said at breakfast, “and that room must be maintained at a temperature of sixty degrees. The best doctors are agreed as to that.”

“Well,” Eliza said, “this room’s more than sixty now.”

“You cannot possibly know,” I replied, and directed the girl to bring me the thermometer, and to handle it carefully.

After a minute or two I consulted it.

“The temperature of this room,” I said, “is not sixty; it is a shade under forty-five.”

“I know better,” said Eliza.

“Do you seriously mean to tell me that you are a better judge of the temperature of this room than that thermometer is?”

“Yes, if it says this room’s forty-five.”

“Then,” I replied, “I must decline to discuss the matter with you.”

I put on more coal at once. Eliza said she wished she could have foreseen all that thermometer would lead to. She then went up to get ready for church — not, I fear, in a very suitable frame of mind.

The thermometer still remained at forty-five, and it occurred to me that it might be in a position where a draught of cold air was playing on the bulb. I put it on the other side of the room. Certainly my own impression was that the room was almost uncomfortably warm. But thinking that this was an erroneous idea due to my indisposition, I again made the fire up. Perhaps I slightly overdid it, for I noticed that the mantelpiece, which is of iron and painted light blue, was beginning to turn brown. By this time I was in a proper perspiration, and the thermometer still stood at forty-five.

A careful examination explained the whole mystery. The tube had been wantonly broken at the extreme end, It was therefore of little use as am accurate recorder of the temperature. I was very much put out about it, and rang for the girl at once. She was sulky and irritated, and obstinately refused to confess that it was she who had broken it. Eliza was perfectly furious at the state of the mantelpiece when she came in. Altogether it was far from being one of the happiest Sundays of my married life.

•   •   •

We gave the thermometer to Miss Sakers for her jumble sale, but she did not seem very enthusiastic. She said it was old clothes she was thinking of mostly. The landlord in his penny-wise-and-pound-foolish way refuses to re-paint the mantelpiece. That man will get a pretty sharp lesson from me one of these days.

A GLOOMY SUNDAY

“Eliza,” I said, “I am going to put to you rather a curious question. What would you do if I fell overpoweringly in love with another woman?”

“That’s a nice sort of thing to ask,” said Eliza — “Sunday afternoon, too! What next? I wish you’d get on with your tea, for the girl’s waiting to clear, and can’t get out till she’s done it.”

“And I am to choke myself to oblige my own servant! Very well; I require nothing more, and if I did I should certainly refuse to take it. Perhaps you would wish me to black her boots also.”

“Don’t be so silly! I promised her she should go to her married sister’s this afternoon. When you’re asked to do anything, why can’t you give a civil answer?”

At this moment the girl came in. When she had retired with the tea-things, I turned to Eliza.

“You say that I cannot give a civil answer. I will not go into that. But I should like to remind you that a few minutes ago I put a question to you and could get no answer whatever.”

“Oh! What was that?”

“I asked you what you would do in the event of my falling overpoweringly in love with—”

“That nonsense? There was nothing to answer. It couldn’t happen.”

“It is true that my principles are strict. Perhaps I might also lay claim to a strong will. But I should hesitate to say that such a thing couldn’t happen. There are storms that sweep away all — everything, in fact.”

“I dare say. But you’re not the stormy sort, you know.”

“What right have you to say that?”

“I’ve been married to you long enough to have found out if you had been. You’re the quiet and respectable kind, and be thankful you are.”

“Under a quiet and respectable exterior there may be a good deal hidden. At the office, for instance, I am supposed to have rather a remarkable control over my temper.”

“Ah!” interrupted Eliza. “They should have heard you at dinner today.”

“If you mean what I said about the way in which the sprouts were cooked — or, to be more accurate, ruined — there are times when a man must speak out if he calls himself a man at all.”

“Yes, but he needn’t go slopping the gravy all over the—”

“Stick to the point, Eliza. Try to stick to the point. Just as I can and do break out in the matter of temper when I think it right and necessary, so it is quite possible I might break out in other ways. I am only human. I have never pretended to be more than that. It is quite possible that I might form some mad and overpowering passion for another woman.”

Eliza seemed to think it over. And then, greatly to my surprise and annoyance, she smiled.

“All right,” she said. “You tell me when that happens. If ever I did die of laughing it would be then. I’d have to have a few friends in to see it.”

“I fail to see,” I replied rather sternly, “that the wreck of three lives is any matter for amusement.”

“Wreck of your grandmother’s ducks!” exclaimed Eliza. I think this rather a vulgar kind of expression, and have repeatedly asked her not to use it. At times it seems as if my wishes went for nothing. “Where’s the wreck coming in?” she went on. “You seem to think that if you made a fool of yourself about some woman she’d be certain to make a fool of herself about you. That’s where my fun would come in, because she wouldn’t. Why, think what you are — think what your age is. Why, look at yourself in the glass. And don’t talk such silliness.”

“That will do, Eliza; you have said quite enough. Possibly, when you are quieter, even you will think that you have said a little too much. And this,” I continued in a bitter way, but quite patient — “this is Sunday! The day of rest. Ha! And peace. Oh, ha, ha! I come home after a hard week’s work. My favourite dish of vegetables is ruined by what I call criminal carelessness, but I am not even allowed to make a few remarks about it. My tea is cut to suit the convenience of a mere domestic servant. That’s all right. The master of the house is of no importance, of course. Keeping my temper, I try to start an interesting subject of conversation. What is my reward? I get a string of insults, ending with a rude and offensive insinuation as to my personal appearance. And I am supposed to stand it.” (Here, I will admit, I grew rather warmer.) “I am expected to put up with it. Here you’re mistaken. I am damned if I—”

“Hold on!” said Eliza, picking up the book she had been reading; “you can finish that by yourself. I’m not going to stop in the room to be sworn at.”

“Mistaken again,” I said, getting a little quieter, “I never said that you were; I said that I was. To speak more correctly, I said that I should be if—”

But Eliza had already gone into the drawing-room. I followed her, and said:

“Kindly permit me to explain. So far was I from—”

Eliza rose, and went back to the dining-room again. I followed, being quite determined that she should hear me out.

“This is childish,” I said. “But even under circumstances of extreme provocation I am determined to—”

Eliza then put her book under her arm and went upstairs to the bedroom. I followed, saying on the stairs:

“I wish to make my position perfectly clear. You have chosen to accuse me of—”

She went into the bedroom, shut the door and locked it.

“Eliza,” I said through the keyhole, “I must ask you to control your temper and—”

At this moment the front door bell rang, and Eliza immediately opened the bedroom door again.

“That’s Miss Sakers,” she said, “and the girl’s gone to her married sister’s. And what are we going to do? Are you going to open the door to her, or am I?”

“Neither,” I said; “I am going out for a short walk. Naturally, if I find Miss Sakers on the doorstep, I shall ask her in and escort her to the drawing-room.”

Having said that I was going out for a walk, I had naturally to be as good as my word. Although I was back ten minutes before church-time, they had already left. This annoyed me so much that I went straight to bed. It was one of those gloomy, trying days that you get sometimes.

TWO LETTERS

It is possible that some of my readers may regard me as one of the rather reckless sort, open-handed, and never thinking twice how the money goes, They would be mistaken. My tastes may be slightly on the luxurious side, and in consequence I may sometimes have purchased articles beyond what Eliza would approve. But value for money has ever been a motto of mine, and I am strongly in favour of what I call wise economies. Doing away with something you do not care about is a wise economy; getting the same thing cheaper elsewhere is another. Any gentleman like myself, with an income that is moderate, or rather less, and with an interest in the management of his home, will know at once what I mean. I had this question of a wise economy in my head when I asked Eliza where her mother was intending to spend her holidays.

The fact was that the eminent City firm with which I am professionally connected had arranged my holiday for the first fortnight in September. That is always a bad month, the quarter’s rent coming at the end of it. I suggested that I should prefer some other fortnight, but it was not entertained. In fact, Mr. Bagshawe, who was a little upset that morning, said I could take that fortnight or leave it, but it would be that or none. I turned it off with a smile, but it rather annoyed me; it looked as if he had forgotten my position.

The expense of living at the seaside is always considerable and sometimes outrageous. At a first glance it looked to me rather as if either the holiday or that quarter’s rent would have to go. I had allowed the last quarter to hang on a little, and my landlord’s agents had made themselves as nasty as they could about it, and this time it would be difficult, or even impossible, to postpone it later than the end of October. At the same time, I did not like to abandon the idea of a holiday. So, turning my attention to the chance of any wise economy, I hit on something in the co-operative way.

Eliza said that she did not know where her mother was going. “In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t go at all this year. Troubled as she is with that shortness of breath, any kind of moving about comes as a trial to her.”

“It certainly is my opinion that she ought not to be allowed to alone. If she came with us, we could look after her a little. She would pay a share, which we could arrange, and I fancy it would work out as a wise economy for us.”

“Yes,” said Eliza, as she sucked the end of her cotton before threading the needle — an objectionable practice, and, as I have proved to her by actual experiment, quite unnecessary. “Yes, that would make a big difference to us. Whitstable’s where she always goes — Mrs. Bunn’s — and I dare say we should find it all right. Still, mother’s no fool, you know.”

“No, indeed. Your mother is an intelligent woman; anybody has only to look at her to see that. I think these jokes about mothers-in-law are silly. She may have moods in which she is what might be called self-willed, but as a rule I find her company most enjoyable The arrangement which I propose will be best for her and best for us, and I’ll sit down tonight and write—”

“Hold on a second,” said Eliza. “When I said she was no fool, what I meant was that she’s pretty sharp to see when anybody is trying to get at her, and then she doesn’t like it. And when she doesn’t like anything — well, you know what she is yourself. She’ll part with money as freely as anybody when she wants, but she can’t stand being done out of anything — and I don’t blame her, either. Suppose we did make a sovereign out of it — which is the most we could do in the fortnight — she might think we were on the job, and then—”

“Eliza, I do think you might be a little more choice in your expressions. It’s a mystery to me how you pick them up.”

“Talking to the girl, I suppose. Most of the day there’s no one else to talk to, and I wasn’t born with my mouth sewed up. But, be that as it may, you’d better leave this Notion of yours about mother. If she suggested it, that would be all right; but if you suggest it she’ll begin to smell a rat. Besides, she is one of the independent sort, and she won’t like any interfering. You see, she’s older than we are.”

“Seeing that she is your mother,” I said, “that is only to be expected. I fully see the force of your arguments, but, to my mind, it’s a case for tact — that is to say, it depends a good deal on the way it’s put. If we share with your mother, I think | can show you by figures that we save at least £2 — with proper management, of course — and I am not disposed to throw £2 in the ditch for want of a little tact. The moment this table’s cleared I sit down and write that letter.”

“Well, anyhow, mind you don’t send it before I’ve seen it.”

“You shall certainly see it, and when you have seen it, I have no doubt you will come to my way of thinking.”

•   •   •

I found, when I sat down to write the letter, that the dining-room ink had been taken off into the kitchen. That is a thing I have always set my face against. As I said to Eliza, it was becoming a question whether my wishes were to be considered or whether | was to be made a living sacrifice to my own servant.

Eliza said the girl had asked if she could spare it, as she was writing to her married sister; and what was a drop of ink?

“A drop of ink is a drop of ink,” I said pointedly, “but discipline is discipline.”

Eliza then said I was a holy terror, and I went on with my letter. The letter began by saying that Eliza had asked me to take my pen in hand to make a little suggestion.

“The fact is,” I went on, “that when we were arranging our own little holiday, we could not help thinking how much pleasanter it would be if we could have you with us. Perhaps you would enjoy it more, too, than dreary solitude. We were thinking of Whitstable, but we would leave that entirely with you. The trouble of ordering would be taken off your hands and it would be a real rest for you. In the evening, or on wet days, I could read out, and it would be a pleasure to me. And if your health was not quite the thing, Eliza would be at hand to give you every attention. I fear it would be useless for me to propose that you should be our guest, though that is what I should like best, so you could either pay a lump sum or so much by the week, as preferred.”

I ended by saying that our little garden was looking nice and fresh after the rain, and we both sent our best love. Then I read it all out to Eliza.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time and your notepaper,” said Eliza, “for I shan’t let you send it.”

“If I choose to send it, it will be sent. Make no mistake about that. What’s your objection to it?”

“To start with, what do you mean by sticking it all on to me, and saying it’s my suggestion? That is as barefaced a one as ever I heard. And what nonsense about her being lonely! That Mrs. Bunn’s more like a friend than a landlady to her, she always says. Then, fancy your saying that what you want most is to pay all her expenses! Go it! Why didn’t you say you’d have the Prince of Wales down to meet her at once? There’d have been just as much sense in it. Do you think she doesn’t know to a penny what we owe her at this moment? Why, it’s as good as calling her a fool to her face. That letter won’t go. I won’t have it.”

I had seen for some time back that it would become necessary for me to put my foot down. The occasion had arrived. I kept my temper perfectly, and said quietly, though emphatically:

“It is useless to argue with you in your present frame of mind, and I shall not attempt it. That letter will go. It is my letter, and I take the entire responsibility.”

“Yes, but it’s my mother,” said Eliza.

“I utterly decline to enter into it. That letter will go. But for the accident that I have removed my boots, the right foot of which was causing me considerable pain, I should take it out and post it this moment. As it is, I shall post it on my way to the station tomorrow. I have nothing more to say except that I could wish you had some common sense and self-control, and — er — good night.”

I went straight up to bed. She called after me that if I sent that letter she would send one herself. She added that the fat would then be in the fire. This was said in a regrettably loud tone of voice, and, the partition walls being thin, must have been perfectly audible to the servant.

I rose early next morning, as there were sundry little matters in the garden that needed my attention. When I came in, Eliza said:

“Are you still determined to post that letter?”

“I am.”

“Sure?”

“Quite sure. It is idle to reopen that subject. I should be glad to know whether the dish before me is intended for poached eggs or for bullets, because—”

“Wait a bit. I had a letter from mother this morning. Like to look at it?”

The letter began by saying that she was in fairly good health, but for the shortness of breath after meals, and hoped we were the same. Then came the important part.

“I’ve made up my mind not to go away this year; I can’t stand those trains. Only yesterday I got on the Underground to go to the Exhibition, and whether it was what I had taken for my dinner or not I can’t say.”

Then followed a few lines of purely medical interest. The letter went on:

“I told Mrs. Bunn I should take my usual fortnight, and don’t want to disappoint her, for she is a good woman, if ever there was one, and I make no doubt the money’s something to her. So I’ll take the rooms, and you two must spend your holiday there. Of course, there will be nothing for you to pay, and you must look on it as your birthday present.”

“Well?” said Eliza. “Hurry up and post that letter of yours now.”

“Ah!” I said. “This is good. This is very good indeed. I will say this — your mother can do a handsome thing with a better grace than anybody I know.” I pulled the letter which I had written out of my pocket, and began to tear it up. “Of course, this puts an entirely different complexion on things.”

Eliza came over and kissed me. “You old silly! why, you nearly made a real bust-up between us. Don’t you do that again!”

“Well, well,” I said, “that’s over, anyhow. Now, what about the question of shoes for the beach, my dear?”

THE ENTERTAINMENT

“Miss Sakers looked in this afternoon,” said Eliza. “They’re getting up some kind of an entertainment, so as to pay off the debt from the last bazaar.”

“And if my advice had been taken there would have been no debt. On the contrary, there would have been a substantial balance for the Organ Fund. As it is, I wash my hands of the whole thing.”

“Miss Sakers said she wanted you to help.”

“Oh! Indeed? Did she say whether it was a song or a recitation?”

“No; she just said she wanted you to help.”

“I suppose she would leave the choice to me. If I did anything, I think it would be a recitation — or possibly a reading: ‘Enoch Arden’ makes a very good reading, especially if accompanied by dissolving views. Of course, dissolving views means a certain outlay, but if you’re going to do a thing at all, I always say that—”

“Here, hold on,” said Eliza, “I thought you washed your hands of the whole thing.”

“So I do. Quite true. I absolutely disclaim any responsibility whatever for the failure of that bazaar. That’s my position, and I won’t shift from it one hair’s-breadth. But the entertainment is a different matter altogether. Miss Sakers apparently thinks that a performance by myself would add to the attraction. Very likely she overrates my abilities. But, at the same time, I should be behaving like a sulky child if I refused her. No, no, Eliza! I’m not going to make myself ridiculous.”

“Ain’t you?” said Eliza.

And I didn’t quite like the way she said it. But I was just starting for our greengrocer (to ask him if he would care to eat a lettuce like that himself), and for the time the subject dropped.

“Now, Eliza,” I said after supper, “suppose I left it to you to settle what I was to do at this entertainment, would you advise a song or a recitation?”

“Certainly not a song, and if you try to recite you may forget the words.”

“I see. You think a reading would be better.”

“That might do. You don’t want it too long. What’s that bit about the garden — the thing you wanted a magic-lantern for?”

“Not garden. ‘Enoch Arden’ is the name of it. It’s about a man who comes back after being away a long time and finds his wife has married somebody else.”

“That’s not bad,” said Eliza. “It would make ’em laugh, anyhow.”

“I trust it would do nothing of the kind. It is a long and beautiful poem by the late Lord Tennyson. I might get it into half an hour if I cut some of it out. And it never fails to brings tears to the eyes.”

“Then that’s off,” said Eliza. “Supposing everybody wanted to last half an hour, where’d the entertainment be Besides, we’re quite in a small way, and it’s more than ever I expected for you to be asked to help at all. I can’t think why she said she wanted you.”

“If you mean that you think me incapable of reading a short poem with appropriate gestures and facial expressions, you are welcome to say so. You have seen but little of the artistic side of my nature. But there was a time when, as a boy, I won a prize for recitation. Had I seen an opening I should probably have taken to the stage. Miss Sakers is not the first who has credited me with some little gift in that direction.”

“Of course, I know you can read, and write too. I suppose you were taught the same as others. All I say is, that if you do anything for that entertainment it oughtn’t (seeing what we are) to go beyond five minutes.”

“Very well. I do not know why social position should settle these matters, but it shall be as you wish. The recitation which in my boyhood won me a copy of ‘The May Queen,’ cloth gilt, with numerous illustrations, took less than five minutes. It told how ‘the Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold, and the sheen of their spears was like—”

“Hold on,” said Eliza. “That’s poetry.”

“It is.”

“Poetry always gives me the hump. I shouldn’t do any poetry if I were you. Why don’t you look out one or two things, and then ask Miss Sakers to choose? She’ll be in here again on Saturday, she said, to see you about it.”

I spent the entire evening in trying to find something which would be suitable.

“How would it be,” I asked Eliza, as I went through our little collection of books — “how would it be if I did something in character?”

“What do you mean? Dressed up? It would be pretty serious. I’ll tell you what it is — you seem to me to be losing your head over this entertainment.”

Eliza has absolutely no artistic side to her character. I cannot blame her for what is a natural deficiency, but I felt justified in pointing it out.

“And it is just that,”I said, “which prevents you from entering more fully into what you might have entered into more fully than you now do enter into it.”

“What’s all that mean?” asked Eliza.

“Rats!” I said, and went up to bed.

I admit that I was much put out.

•   •   •

Finding nothing in our own small library that quite pleased my taste, I purchased next day in the City a copy of “Haverford’s Giant Reciter” — a remarkably large book for a shilling. I selected two pieces — “Won by a Head” and “Two by Tricks.” Business being slack, I was enabled to devote some of my time at the office to studying these. I worked at them also in the luncheon hour, and in the train going home. Eliza said later that evening that it wasn’t much fun sitting with a man who hadn’t a word to say to you, and just put his head back and screwed his eyes up and whispered.

“I was committing a piece to memory. I will repeat it to , if you like.”

“All right. What’s it called?”

“‘Won by a Head.’”

“I didn’t ask whom it was by. I asked what it was called.”

“Just as I said. It’s ‘Won by a Head.’”

“I don’t care if it’s one by him or one by somebody else. What’s the name of it?”

“It seems hopeless to make you understand.”

“Then what’s the good of reciting a thing when nobody can understand it? You don’t seem to know where you are.” However, that was soon cleared up.

•   •   •

Miss Sakers called, as arranged, on Saturday afternoon. She was very smiling and affable.

“I hear,” she said, “that you’re going to be good enough to help us with the entertainment.”

“Certainly — with pleasure. I’m afraid that I can’t do much.”

“But I don’t ask for much. If you and the others that we’ve asked give a shilling each, that will cover the rent and lighting of the hall, and then we shan’t have the fiasco that we had with the bazaar. And it will be quite a good entertainment. Mr. Stapleby’s getting it up.”

By an adroit movement I managed to slip the copy of “Haverford’s Giant Reciter” out of sight. I also paid over the shilling — a sum which was at the time a consideration to me.

Eliza, interpreting my frown correctly, saw that she was not to say anything about my mistake as to the nature of the help required of me. And to this day Miss Sakers is none the wiser.

But I shall not go to that entertainment. Why should I pay money to see Stapleby and his friends make fools of themselves?

THE REMARKABLE FOG

It is the custom of the partners in the firm which has secured my services to give a dinner once a year to a few of those who hold the highest positions in their employ. The dinner is given at a first-class restaurant, and on quite an unlimited scale. When I received my invitation I took the matter in hand at once. My reply was based on the model given in “The Perfect Gentleman,” and was, I think, in the best taste. I insisted that Eliza should go over my evening clothes with a little benzine at least one week before they were required — if this is left till the very last, the smell is often only too noticeable. I also purchased a new pair of good patent-leather boots. Eliza said, in rather a nasty way, that it was just as well that these dinners only came once in a year. I answered, with a smile:

“The boots will still remain when the dinner is over, my dear; and if I can judge by appearances, I have seldom had better value for half a guinea.”

The only possible objection that could be taken to them was that they creaked; the very best boots are liable to do this, and it can be neither foreseen nor prevented. However, Eliza said that she did not care to be awakened in the middle of the night, and I promised that on my return I would remove my boots in the passage downstairs. As a matter of fact, Eliza is a singularly heavy sleeper.

The dinner was a great success, and although champagne was served ad libitum, the bounds of sobriety were never actually exceeded. The only person who at all approached the border was a man of the name of Watson, whose inclusion among the invited guests seemed to me a matter of doubtful policy. He has been with the firm for many years, but he is not my idea of a gentleman. Personally, I kept a very close watch on myself, not wishing to incur the slightest risk of the merest suspicion of anything not being as it should be. Very few men when invited, and even pressed, to take so much, would have taken so little; but, with me, self-control is a second nature.

I took the last train back, and found, on my arrival, that a dense fog had set in. However, I walked home without thinking much about it, humming a tune as I went. I let myself in with my latchkey, groped for the chair by the umbrella-stand, sat down, and took off my boots. I placed these under the chair, wound up my watch, and then struck a match. The first thing that struck me was that our stair-carpet had been taken up; then I noticed that the furniture and wallpaper were strange to me. In the fog I had missed my right turning and taken the next. By an accident my latchkey had fitted, and I was in the wrong house — a house very much like my own, but not my own. And just as this dawned on me, a dog began to bark most savagely.

I did not lose my head. I rather flatter myself that under no possible circumstances should I lose my head. If I had lost my head, I should have stopped and explained. I might have shown that my latchkey happened to fit the lock, and my appearance would have helped to prove that I was no burglar. But I was in evening dress in we wrong house with my boots off, and with my face slightly flushed from fast walking, and no explanation could have avoided a most unjust suspicion on the part of the occupants as to my sobriety. So, keeping my head, I left at once, closing the door behind me.

If I did make a mistake at all, it was that I forgot to take my boots with me. Mind, I discovered it almost immediately, but it was a mistake, and I did not see my way to put it right. I might have gone back, but I did not know whereabouts the dog would be; and if the occupants of the house were already roused, I should be merely incurring the absurd suspicion to which I have already alluded. I walked, or, more accurately, ran home in my socks. You may be sure that | got the right house this time, and that I was particularly careful to avoid waking Eliza.

Next morning she asked when I had returned. I told her. I mentioned also that I had noticed that the clock in the passage was four minutes slow, and had put it right; and that I had folded up my evening things and put them away.

Eliza said:

“What for?”

“Nothing in particular,” I replied.

The fact was that I had wished to have some evidence, in case Eliza discovered that I had come home without my boots, that the loss was not due to any — well, say any lapse on my part. I also gave her a very clear account of the dinner, and expressed my regret that Watson had taken just that second whisky and soda after dinner which makes all the difference.

“Personally,” I added, “I never touch anything after dinner.”

This was Sunday morning. For some reason or other the firm always gives its annual dinner on a Saturday evening. I had a very hearty breakfast; in fact, Eliza remarked upon it, and said it was no compliment to the dinner of the night before.

“Ah!” I said, “I expect it’s very different with Watson. It would never surprise me if he were not asked next year.”

Just then the girl came in to say that she had hunted everywhere for the boots I wore the night before, and how was she to clean them when she didn’t know where they were?

I said:

“The boots in question are patent-leather and valuable, and require to be cleaned in a special manner. I prefer to undertake them myself, and have put them aside for that purpose.”

Eliza then thought it her business to strike in.

“What nonsense!” she said. “She’s done patent-leather of mine.”

The girl said that it was all the same to her, but it had got to be one way or the other.

I said sternly that it and everything else had got to be just exactly as I said. I then took my hat and went for a little stroll before church. I had some idea that if the discussion were prolonged Eliza might become suspicious. If she had once found out that I had after that dinner left my boots in the wrong house, talking would have been of little use.

There are some things we shall never understand. I shall probably never know what moved me to go back to the street which, owing to the fog, I had mistaken for my own last night. Once there, I had no difficulty in locating the house — the eleventh on the left. I had no thought of getting the boots back; I was only hoping that when the people of the house found a pair of practically new boots under the chair in their passage they would have the sense to say nothing about it; any talk on that subject in the neighbourhood might have been most prejudicial. I just took one glance at the house, and saw in the window this notice:

To Let.

Keys at No. 12.

It all came over me in a flash. I had left the boots in an empty house! I was carrying out my plan before some men would have had the time to form a plan at all. In five seconds I was knocking at the door of the next house, asking for the keys of No. 11, which I wished to see on behalf of a friend, and apologizing for troubling them on a Sunday. The woman who gave me the keys apologized too for the noise her dog was making. But she said that he was a good watchdog, and when he had heard some drunken brute trying the door of the next house the night before, he had barked like anything. I had reason to know that this was in part true.

The first thing I saw when I entered that fatal house was my copy of the menu. I must have pulled it out with my handkerchief, or by some other accident. I caught the words Blé vert a l’Allemande, which would appear to be the French for soup, and Pommes naturelles, which I had not been able to identify. The chair was still there — owing to some little misunderstanding with the landlord the previous tenants had not got all their furniture out — and the boots were still under it. In another moment they were in the tail-pockets of my frock-coat.

I confess that I look back on this incident with no little pleasure. It may seem absurd at first sight, but I believe there are men in the diplomatic service who could not have taken that situation up and dealt with it as I did. Everything passed off well.

At the same time, if I am invited (as I have reason to expect) next year, I shall make no bones about ordering a cab to meet me at the station on my return and saying nothing to Eliza about it. In these fogs anything may happen. I have had the menu suitably framed, and it makes quite an addition to our drawing-room.