Eliza Getting On
Date: 1910-12-31T15:00:00+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
GETTING ON

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 Getting On, first published in 1911, is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS

… Cover

… Titlepage / About

ELIZA GETTING ON

The Move
“Oof-pa”
Flies
A Game of Bowls
The Recitation
The Tyrolese Exercises
The Circle Club
The Aquapen

Psychic Investigations

Mellingham
The Insult
“Name This Child”

ELIZA GETTING ON

THE MOVE

When Eliza’s poor dear mother was called to her rest, the actual money which Eliza received worked out at much less than had been expected, and was tied up in a way that I personally — and I suppose I am a man of business if I am anything — thought totally unnecessary. However, the old lady had allowed herself to be guided entirely by the advice of Eliza’s brother Frank, a man of whom I have no very high opinion, (I have myself seen him drinking sherry wine at half-past eleven in the morning, and shaking hands with the barmaid afterwards in a way that was simply derogatory.) I take it that it was entirely due to Frank that my name was not so much as mentioned in the will.

I had always been on the best of terms with Eliza’s mother. She occasionally obliged me with a little temporary financial advance in times of pressure, and refused interest, though offered. I frequently wrote to her, always including any witticism (if suitable) that I might have heard in the City. I also sent her presents — sometimes a few flowers from our garden, sometimes plums, sometimes a cucumber — yes, and at times of the year when cucumbers meant money. I must say I was disappointed. If ever there was a case of undue influence, that was one.

I must add a few words on the subject of Eliza’s mother’s funeral. All Frank had got to do was to come to me and say, “This sad event puts me in rather a responsible position, and I should be glad of a few words of advice from a man with your knowledge of the world.” That would have been the natural thing for him to have done. I should imagine that, though not an executor, as son-in-law of the deceased I had some claim to be consulted. I should have said politely, “By all means. Let us go into the question thoroughly.”

Nothing of the kind happened. He did not come to me in that way, and I am far from being the sort of man that sticks himself forward. So far as the funeral was concerned, I am in a position to say that he did not even consult Mr. Bullock, who was the other executor.

The inevitable consequences followed, as they so often do. It seems to me now a providential blessing that Eliza was down with the influenza at the time, and unable to attend the funeral. Not to mince matters, it was not so much a funeral as a fiasco, bungled from the very start, as I knew it would be. It all happened three years ago or more, and even now it gives me no sort of pleasure to dwell upon it. I would sooner drop the subject.

What else could be expected? The undertaker employed was quite in a small way, had to hire everything, and, so far as I could see, took no sort of personal interest in his work. We were twenty minutes late in getting away, which shows what the organization was like; and whatever else the driver of the second coach may have been on the way back, he certainly was not sober. I was not the only one who noticed it, and Mr. and Mrs. Bullock would tell you the same thing. But it is a painful thing, and the less aid about it the better.

But, in quitting the topic, I should like to say just one word as to the actual fittings. When my time comes, whether the plate on my coffin is silver or brass, I do hope, at any rate, that my name will be engraved on it straight, and not cock-eyed. That is all I have to say.

Well, there is just one more point, though I hate this raking up of old sores. I refer to Eliza’s brother’s faux pas as regards Mr. Dadling. He is an old friend of the family, was for many years a traveller to a well-known firm of wine and spirit merchants, and has now retired. During the illness of the deceased he left at the house a bottle of brandy of a quality that simply cannot be procured for money; in fact, it was only his close connection with the trade and a little special favour that enabled him to obtain it. He subsequently sent a floral tribute, consisting of an anchor in violets on a heart-shaped background of white geranium. I have the gravest doubts if that could have been procured from any shop for less than thirty-five shillings. But was Mr. Dadling invited to the funeral? He was not. He was forgotten — simply forgotten, as if he had been so much dirt. Of course, the only safe way is to make a list, and that is one of the first things I should have told Frank if I had been asked.

However, he is, after all, Eliza’s brother; and, in any case, as I have already implied, I prefer to draw the veil over the whole affair. Otherwise I should have had a word to say on the subject of refreshments. I do not pretend to be an expert in these matters, but in a case of doubt I should have thought it best to err on the safe side. The funeral started nominally at the very inconvenient hour of half-past twelve. I presume it was arranged to suit the undertaker, for certainly it suited nobody else. As a matter of fact, it started at ten minutes to one. I took it for granted that wine and sandwiches, or at the very least biscuits, would have been handed. It was not so much a question of etiquette as of common humanity. But they were not handed and not even suggested. It may have been a simple want of foresight, or there may have been another reason. It is of no use to dwell on these things. We cannot recall the past.

After all, there are pleasanter things to talk about, and if I linger one moment on the question of the trousers worn by Frank at the funeral, it is merely to show the reader that I do not grumble without cause, I had my doubts about them as soon as I came into the room, and later I had an opportunity to get a closer look at them in a better light. Dark grey as may have been, and if he likes to say that they were very dark grey, I shall not deny it. My point is that they were not black. Personally, I wore the trousers of my dress suit at the funeral and for many a long day afterwards, and it was quite open to Frank to have is the same — well, what I mean is, that it was quite open to him to have worn his own dress trousers. It all resolves itself in my mind into a question of respect for the deceased. And that is my last word about it.

Fortunately, it is not necessary for me to say anything as to the near-side horse in the second coach, because everything I have said about Frank’s trousers applies to that horse equally. There is no getting away from it. The horse simply was not of a suitable colour for the sacred and solemn function that it was called upon to perform. I may not be a great judge of horses, but I am not colour-blind. That horse was dark brown, and it was only too painfully obvious that much of its tail was not genuine. I am quite reasonable about the point. I do not blame the horse, and I do not blame the undertaker. Being quite in a small way, he probably had to take what he could get. But I must, and I do, blame the man who selected that undertaker on his own initiative, without asking for the advice that an older and wiser man was quite ready to give him. I will not pursue the subject further. I prefer to wipe the whole thing out of my mind.

The one thing I must add is a matter of personal explanation. Eliza and I sent a wreath. I know what I paid for it, and I know that Mrs. Bullock said it was a perfect picture; but never mind about that. To that wreath a card was attached bearing the name of the donors and a suitable inscription in my own handwriting; and I had not grudged time in the composition of that inscription. If these things are not done in exquisite taste, they had better not be done at all. During the whole of the ceremony that card was kept face downwards. I will try to believe that this was accidental, but I must say that it was an accident that should not have happened. I managed in a tactful way to mention to Mrs. Bullock that it was our wreath, but I have no doubt that some people thought we had sent nothing, and were surprised at the omission.

I am not at all sure that one of these days I shall not make out a list of all the different things that were wrong at the funeral of Eliza’s mother — simply as a matter of curiosity.

•   •   •

Still, so far as things went, there was an improvement in our circumstances. And at about the same time I received the further advance in salary that had been promised me. This might very well have been made the occasion for a few graceful words of compliment and thanks for my services. What my employer, Mr. Bagshawe, actually said was:

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to have the rise, but it’s the last you’ll get, and it’s more than you’re worth.”

This shows that a man may be senior partner in a City firm of the first importance, and yet be wanting in the feelings and manners of a gentleman. The idea of telling him that he could keep his money did occur to me. However, I contented myself with saying that I did my best to give satisfaction.

“That’s what every incompetent fool says when he is sacked,” said Mr. Bagshawe.

I had either to keep silence or to tell him that he need not go out of his way to be rude. I kept silence — I have, perhaps, as much self-control as most men — and the interview then terminated.

It was evident to me from the first that, with our pecuniary position going upward by leaps and bounds like this, we should have to move into a new house — something more appropriate to our class of life. But I doubt if Eliza would ever have seen it had it not been for the question of the furniture. Her mother’s furniture was to be divided equally between Eliza and Frank, and a day was fixed for them to meet and make their selection.

“I shall not accompany you, Eliza,” I said. “As I have been left out, I wish to remain out. I shall not even offer a word of advice. You know as well as I do that tablespoons are what we have always been short of, and that sheets which have been turned sides to middle no longer look the same thing. But I want you to do quite as you like about it. Make your own selection. Otherwise, I might have mentioned that the bureau, being old, is probably more valuable than it looks, and would be useful for my papers. As it is, I would sooner not give so much as a hint.”

However, Eliza asked me a few questions as to bedsteads, clock for the dining-room mantelpiece, and so on, and it would have been mere ill-temper not to have replied. She came back from the division slightly flushed, and said that she had kept her end up, and that Frank had told her she ought to have been a pawnbroker. She showed me her list, and really I had no idea there would have been so much.

As there was no room for our new acquisitions in the little house we then occupied, Eliza agreed, rather reluctantly, to a move.

The house which I originally had my eye upon was “Soulsrest” (241 London Road). Not being an architect, I find it difficult to give much idea of the place, but one side of the roof came down much lower than the other side, and there was a sort of turret in one corner. Eliza thought it looked cock-eyed, but it seemed to me to be distinctly artistic.

It had corner fireplaces and windows where you would least have expected them. Over the fireplace in the drawing-room was carved the motto “Stet Domus,” but this, unfortunately, had cracked across owing to a settlement. The landlord, who was also the builder, told me that every house was bound to settle if it was properly built, but these large cracks do certainly detract from the appearance. There was a veranda at the back, and a copper knocker on the front door gave the thing a finish. Anybody who passed that house was bound to look at it.

I admit the rent was twenty pounds more than we wished to give, but then there was a sundial in the garden and everything was in the best taste. Besides, the landlord said he would be only too glad to meet me, as it was not everybody’s house. I could see, though, that Eliza was set against it from the first, and on looking into it we found that most of the doors would not shut and the windows would not open. It may have been, as the landlord said, simply a matter for a little adjustment, but it rather gave Eliza an argument. And when the landlord refused to have the drains tested on the ground that it would be equivalent to calling him a liar, I could see that the thing was hopeless.

The house which we finally decided upon was “Meadow-sweet,” and more Eliza’s choice than mine. It was described on the agent’s list as a desirable gentleman’s residence, exceptionally well built, with lovely old-world gardens, extending to upwards of a quarter of an acre, but that does not really give you much of an idea of the place.

It was a semi-detached house, and, as compared with “Soulsrest,” it seemed remarkably solid, though it had not the same art character. The previous tenant had made rather a hobby of the bit of garden at the back, but the agent overdid it in calling it old-world. It was a little bit too ordinary to be quite my ideal, but I suppose that even for forty-nine a year — and we had some difficulty in getting it down to that — you cannot have everything.

The hot-water supply to the bathroom keeps me constantly wondering how we did without it for so long. We have bigger rooms than before, and two extra rooms. The landlord went far beyond what we had expected in the matter of wallpapers. In fact, taking one thing with another, I am not sure that Eliza was not right.

Once the thing was settled I began to get to work in earnest. As I said to Eliza, a move is almost always associated with mess, and worry, and confusion. There is no reason on earth why this should be so. All that is wanted is a certain amount of system.

“Yes,” said Eliza rather doubtfully, “of course, you’ve got to think what you’re doing.”

“Not enough,” I said. “Too vague. You’ve got to go further than that. By my system mistakes are impossible. Every piece of furniture goes automatically into its right place in the new house, and before evening on the day of removal the whole thing is as much in order as if you had lived there all your life.”

“It sounds a deal too good to be true,” said Eliza. “What is it?”

“Perfectly simple. To every piece of furniture is attached a gummed label with a number on it. That number is entered in a book, and against it is written the room in which it is to be placed, and, where necessary, its place in the room. For instance, I number this bureau 14. I enter that number in my registration book, and against it I write ‘Dining-room, left of fireplace.’ Very well. On the day of the removal I stand at the door of the new house. The bureau is brought out of the van. I look at the number on it, refer to my book, and am able to say at once exactly where it is to go.”

“Sounds all right; but these patent ideas never do come off.”

“We shall see,” I said.

And I cannot say too strongly that, however much Eliza may try to turn the thing into a joke, the system did not fail. Accidents are things that no man on earth can guard against. I admit that it gave me a good deal of work, but it was work that I enjoyed. For over a week I spent most of my leisure in measuring up the new house to see where things would fit in, in gumming labels on the furniture, and in making the necessary entries in my registration book. Many a night I was sitting at my bureau (Eliza secured the bureau all right) until after eleven. I wanted to show how very easily a move could be arranged where the master of the house showed intelligence and some little talent for organization.

We employed Mr. Bunn to move us, and I have since regretted it. I should have preferred Crampton and Stubbs. They have the best vans, and move the best people, and all their men have the name of the firm in gold on their caps. But there was since | no comparison between the two estimates, and Crampton and Stubbs rather implied to me that, unless it was a ready-money matter, they would not care to undertake it. Mr. Bunn, on the other hand, said that half down and the rest in three months would suit him perfectly. I had just paid out for getting Eliza’s mother’s furniture up from London, and — well, I was hardly free to choose as I should have wished.

Mr. Bunn’s men were one hour and a half late in starting. I remained to supervise the loading up of the van. Eliza said I was only in the way, but if I had not been there to give them a word of warning, Mr. Bunn’s men would have damaged valuable property in getting it round the angle of the staircase. Just as they were finishing, I dashed off to “Meadowsweet,” in order to be ready for them on their arrival.

As it happened, I need not have dashed. Mr. Bunn’s men stopped on the way to mend a broken trace, so they told me. And, if breath is any criterion, they mended it at a public-house.

As soon as I saw the van come into sight, I felt for my registration book, that I might check each piece of furniture on its arrival and tell the men where to put it. It sounds hardly credible, but that registration book was not in my pockets, It was not lost. On the contrary, on thinking it over I knew perfectly well where it was. It was in a drawer of the bureau, where I had left it the night before.

I described the bureau to the foreman, and said that I should like to have that taken out first.

He said that he was sorry, but it was impossible. The bureau was right at the end of the van, behind everything else, and it would be about the last thing they would be able to get at.

That being so, I did the best I could from memory, and it is ridiculous of Eliza to say that I lost my head. What really happened was that, while I was trying to think where one piece of furniture was to go, the men would remove three other pieces and put them just anywhere.

•   •   •

We had supper in the bathroom that night. It was the only room where there was a clear table, and that table ought never to have been there. However, in about a week’s time we were comparatively clear.

“OOF-PA”

I thought and said, when we moved into “Meadowsweet,” that it would be more in accordance with that class of house if we kept two servants.

“Call it three,” said Eliza. “Three girls, besides the butler, of course. The chauffeur will have to sleep in the orchid-house, but that can be arranged. Right away. Toot-toot!”

“If you wish to be funny,” I said “I simply decline to continue the conversation. All I ask for is one fair cook and one house-parlourmaid.”

“Then, if we have the cook fair, we’d better pick a dark house-parlourer, so that we shan’t get ’em mixed. No, you don’t. All you’ll get is one general, and occasional help if wanted. You’re the sort of man that’s used to eleven-pence, gets a shilling, and wants to spend half a crown on the strength of it.”

We had some further discussion, but I did not press the point. I very rarely interfere in these domestic matters, my mind having rather a wider scope; perhaps it would be better if I took a more active part. With all her merits I should never have engaged Parker. I can lay my hand on my heart and affirm that positively. And I have told Eliza so.

I always call her Parker, and have made a point of doing so. It is the best style, and where no extra expense is involved this should be preferred. Besides, Parker is her actual name; and her first name, Victorine, is quite unsuited to the purposes of domestic service. But if you think I can persuade Eliza to call her Parker, you are much mistaken. Eliza calls her Jane, and speaks of her either as “the girl,” which comes a little too near vulgarity for my taste, or else “our general,” which might create confusion with Lords Kitchener and Roberts, and, in any case, gives away the secrets of the prison-house in an unnecessary manner.

Parker came in on a Friday. Her appearance did not seem to me to be greatly in her favour, being somewhat on the bulky side. She looked melancholy, and was getting on in life. Forty-three, I should say. On Saturday Eliza told me that she was a demon to work, and wasted nothing. This seemed satisfactory so far, but Sunday dinner is always the test that I go by.

We had, I remember, a stewed breast of veal, and peas of our own growing. The cooking was quite satisfactory. At least two of the potatoes I should have been ashamed to offer to a pig, but that was not Parker’s fault. Our greengrocer was leaving the neighbourhood, and no longer cared what he sent out. But the waiting at table was not quite up to my level.

“Hand the peas again, Parker,” I said. “And another time don’t need to be asked.”

To my great surprise, Parker drew a deep breath, and then exhaled it sharply, producing a sound somewhat like “oof-pa.” Upon my word, I thought at first that it was intended for insolence. But immediately afterwards she handed the peas with every appearance of respect, and even of fear.

When she had gone out of the room I asked Eliza, “Why does she make that curious sort of ‘oof-pa’ sound?”

“Oh, that’s nothing!” said Eliza. “I asked her about it. She hurt her right kneecap, and every now and then it gives a twinge. That’s what makes her say ‘oof-pa.’ It will pass off.”

“I sincerely hope so,” I said, and at once changed the conversation from what I felt to be a delicate topic.

As Parker placed the fruit tart in front of me, I asked her what she was giving us. She said it was apple, “oof-pa,” and cranberry. And so it went on all day, and very unpleasant it was for me.

You see, it is impossible to say “oof-pa” without seeming to express contempt and disgust. For instance, I called her in to tell her the way I liked her to do my boots in the morning. It is a point I am rather particular about, and so far Parker had not quite satisfied me. It has always been a motto of mine that if you get good boots and treat them properly, it is an economy in the end. “If,” I said to her, “you slosh a lot of blacking over the laces just to save time for yourself, you waste time for your employer by making him wash his hands unnecessarily.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Quite correctly.

And then, just as I was explaining to her that, if she used the blacking brushes for brown boots, she was practically throwing twelve shillings into the gutter, she interrupted me by saying “oof-pa” loudly. And, whether she meant it or whether she did not, it seemed as much as to say that I was making a silly fool of myself, and she had no patience to hear any more of it.

All this was on the Sunday. Monday, at breakfast, there was much less “oof-pa,” and in the evening Eliza said that she thought the worst was over.

On Tuesday that view seemed to be what you might call confirmed. No “oof-pa” was heard all day, and we were both glad that Parker’s kneecap was all right again.

And on Wednesday it was “oof-pa” here, and “oof-pa” there, and “oof-pa” all over the house — worse than ever.

“Eliza,” I said, “something will have to be done about this. I pay forty pounds for this house, and, in spite of that, here’s our servant goes about saying ‘oof-pa’! The thing’s quite out of keeping, and might very easily frighten a visitor.”

“Well,” said Eliza, “if we ever get a visitor, you can explain how it happens.”

“Pardon me,” I said, “but I can do nothing of the kind. Parker’s kneecap happens to be one of the things to which no self-respecting man can allude.”

“Anyhow, it’s only in the damp weather that she gets these twinges, and we had a lot of rain last night. That’s what has done it.”

“That may be,” I said pointedly, “but what safeguard have we got against rain?”

“Ordinary umbrellas,” said Eliza, foolishly trying to turn it off.

However, that was no use. The thing had got on my nerves, and I stuck to the subject. I told Eliza that, in her place, I should go to the girl and say quite quietly, “You suffer from a slight infirmity. I do not blame you for it; on the contrary, you have my sympathy. But you must be aware that it constitutes a total disqualification for service in a house of this class.”

“Why, if I talked to her that way, she’d think I’d gone clean off my burner.”

“Head, Eliza — head!”

“Besides, it’s almost like giving her notice.”

“It is quite like it,” I said, “and intended to be like it. It may be better expressed than is usual with—”

“Oh, well,” said Eliza, “when I give a girl the sack I like her to know what I mean. But I’m not going to sack this one. She’s a good worker, and they don’t grow on gooseberry bushes.”

“Then there is only one alternative, and upon that I shall insist. A proper medical opinion must be taken, and these twinges, with the accompanying ‘oof-pa,’ must be cured.”

Somewhat to my surprise, Eliza did not disagree. I have given my words to the best of my recollection. Eliza says that she is perfectly certain I added “whatever the expense.”

If I did — and I have the gravest doubts about it — I must naturally have meant, whatever the expense to Parker. Any thoughtful woman would have seen that for herself. But Eliza, in her reckless slapdash way, sent out for the doctor the very next day. He came twice, and I suppose that sooner or later I shall have to pay him for it. Parker was then sent off to her married sister, rest being what it was alleged she required.

There she lay in bed for eleven days — feeding, I make no doubt, on the fat of the land, doing no work whatever, and being paid by me for it all the time. And I had to pay the occasional help to do Parker’s work into the bargain. As I said to Eliza, in that case what are the hospitals for?

It happened at a most unfortunate time, too. It is, I believe, a general experience, shared by highest and lowest alike, that a move into a new house leaves you a bit short. You pay for the tenant’s fixtures — about twice what they are worth — and you pay for the van. You pay for mending what the men break, and you tip them for doing it. I don’t know what it may be like in other parts of the world, but in our neighbourhood they simply sniff at sixpence apiece. The money just leaks away. It’s a new pair of curtains here, and a strip of linoleum there, and the old-oak stain for the dining-room floor, and brass-headed nails used like water. It takes a Rothschild to do that kind of thing without feeling it. And that is most emphatically not the time when you want to pay two servants to do the work of one.

I pointed out these things to Eliza at breakfast on the Saturday that Parker was to return, and Eliza said that she was sick and tired of hearing about it — I may possibly have mentioned the subject once before or at the most three times — and that anyhow the girl was cured and there was an end of it.

When I got back from the City that day I strolled into the garden, and found Parker there cutting cress — which, by the way, had been allowed to go long past its prime. I told her not to give us quite so much stalk with it, and then, in a genial way, added that I was glad she had recovered. In my experience, a kind word to one’s inferiors is never thrown away.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “‘Oof-pa’! ‘oof-pa’! I am quite well again, and glad to get back to my ‘oof-pa’ work.”

Well, what was I to do? What is any man to do under circumstances like that? Kneecaps are no subject for discussion between a married man and an unmarried woman, and I doubt if there is any gentleman in England who is more careful about what he says in the presence of a woman than I am, but I made no bones about it. An explanation of some kind I was determined to have.

“If your knee is better,” I said, “why do you keep on saying ‘oof-pa,’ as if you were in pain?”

She said that her knee was quite well, and that she had no pain at all. But she had got into the habit of saying “oof-pa” now, and habit was a thing you could not do away with, and she supposed she would carry it to the grave with her. She then burst into tears and went into the house.

Presently Eliza came out, looking rather worried. She said:

“I don’t know what you’ve been doing to upset that poor girl, but I do wish you wouldn’t interfere with her. She talks about leaving at the end of her month, and, after all the money we’ve spent on her, she wouldn’t say that for nothing. If you wouldn’t go sticking your oar in, I could manage a deal better.”

I admit that I lost my temper, but there are some provocations that go past the limit. “Very well, Eliza,” I said, “from henceforward I shall say nothing to you or to her, or to anybody else about anything.”

I walked straight away from her and into the house. As I passed the scullery window I distinctly heard Parker stop sobbing for a moment to say “oof-pa’”!

I did not carry out my threat in actual practice. As a matter of fact, I had to speak to Parker twice that same night — once to tell her how to pour out a bottle of beer, information which I had given her before, and once to say that she had forgotten to put the chain on the front door as usual.

We had an explanation at breakfast next morning, when Eliza showed herself rather more reasonable, and said she would speak to the girl about it. Parker is still with us, and by dint of much patient work on our part is almost broken of the “oof-pa” habit. But there is no absolute certainty about it. I am sure that when visitors are present I often feel almost as if I were walking on a volcano.

FLIES

I seldom let a day pass without taking a glance at our thermometer, though it now means going round by the back to do it. I fixed that thermometer at first outside the front porch, and in a civilized country that would have been the proper place for it. But as the street boys made a cock-shy of it, and the police could or would do nothing, I simply took the law into my own hands and drove in a nail on the shady side of the scullery window. A little more security of property is what I should like to see.

However, be that as it may, neither my reading of the thermometer nor my own personal feelings led me to believe that the weather during the early part of August was specially hot. You might have called it normal, or, perhaps, not even that.

And, in spite of that, the flies at “Meadowsweet” were absolutely beyond measure. I am sure, one Sunday morning, the way they came buzzing round our bacon was like nothing in my experience. As I Fished the third in five minutes out of my teacup, I said to Eliza:

“These flies cannot be allowed to go on. They must be stopped.”

“Well,” said Eliza, “I don’t want ’em. You can stop ’em as far as I’m concerned.”

“Don’t be silly, Eliza. We all have our duties to do in this life, and it ought not to be necessary for me to mention everything. What are the facts? In five minutes by that clock I’ve taken three dead flies out of my tea, and—”

“It’ll take you a long time to finish ’em that way.”

“You miss the point, as usual. What I want you to see — in fact, what I want you to grasp — is that if a house of this class is properly managed, an incident of that kind does not happen and cannot happen. Why? Simply because things are looked after. As it is, I suppose I’m either to be eaten alive by flies in a house I pay forty pounds a year for, or I’m to see to it myself. It’s he same thing all round. I buy a thermometer and I put that up — who’d look at it if I didn’t?”

“Nobody,” said Eliza. “Nor want.”

“Just what I knew you’d say. You take no intelligent interest in things. With the income we now enjoy I presume that the purchase of a few fly-strings or fly-papers would be nothing out of the way, but instead of that—”

“Hold on. Is it fly-strings you want?”

“What else have I been saying all this time?”

“Never even mentioned ’em. And you needn’t make a face as if you’d just sat down on a tin-tack, for—”

“One moment, please. The fact remains that though these flies are amounting to an epidemic, you have never thought about fly-strings, never ordered them, never—”

“Why, I ordered them yesterday. And that’s the second time Binns has disappointed: me this last week. That boy of his has got a head like a sieve.”

“In that case,” I said, “the fault lies entirely with Binns. He is not the only grocer in the neighbourhood, and one of these days I ma tare to give him a sharp lesson. We may now drop the subject.”

Eliza, unfortunately, is not quite so quick to see when a topic is exhausted. In fact, she went on and on.

At midday it seemed to me that the flies were, if possible, worse. We dined on roast beef and flies, with a fly-tart to follow. A bottle of Embridge’s light dinner ale (rather a favourite beverage of mine, as it produces no drowsy after-effects) was converted into fly-soup almost as soon as opened. The meal was simply a mockery, and I said so. Afterwards, Eliza thought she would go for a turn, and said that Mrs. Bast (who was down with another of her bilious attacks) had asked her to look in.

Under these circumstances I could not with propriety accompany Eliza, but I made no objection to her programme, and said that she would find me in the drawing-room on her return. Mrs. Bast lives in quite a small way, but is said to be well connected. I have it from her own lips that her first husband was an officer in the army.

There seemed at first to be far fewer flies in the drawing-room. I congratulated myself that the smell of our furniture polish, which is, perhaps, a little too decided, was keeping them off. It was so very marked that, before stretching myself on the sofa, I opened one of the windows.

And then the invasion began. Flies streamed in through the window. Fourteen crawled in under the door. I should imagine that this last is a very unusual phenomenon, but I saw and counted them myself.

I hit on a happy expedient to protect myself against them. I wrapped my head, hands and ankles in newspaper, securing it with pins where necessary. This rendered me unable to read the book I had brought in with me — Pinching’s “Formation of Character” — but I could pursue my own meditations undisturbed. These periods of quiet thought are not without their value.

I was awakened by a sound of silly giggling, and, removing the newspaper from my face, I was somewhat startled to see Eliza and Miss Sakers. They had met by chance, and Eliza had asked Miss Sakers to step in.

A more annoying contretemps could hardly happen to a gentleman, and, with a little tact on Eliza’s part, it might easily have been avoided. But, while determining to speak to Eliza about it afterwards, I showed no sign of irritation at the time. It should be a rule with every gentleman never to display irritation in the presence of a visitor. When Miss Sakers said that this was quite a surprise, I answered smilingly that the surprise was entirely mine.

It was intended as a compliment, and spoken in the tone of voice I generally use for that purpose. Ale, as nobody took any notice of it, it probably did not matter. But on thinking it over I doubt if it quite did me justice. I was removing a newspaper from my ankles at the time, and was somewhat flurried, as any man would have been under the circumstances.

Eliza said that I looked like a parcel that had come undone in the post. To change the subject, I began to apologize for the flies, and to explain that the fault really lay with Binns.

When they had stopped laughing — and I think Miss Sakers would have shown better taste if she had stopped rather sooner — they decided to have tea in the garden. And, of course, I could only acquiesce, though I had my own opinions on the subject.

Nobody enjoys a little al fresco, as the French say, more than I do, and anybody who thinks that I am a narrow-minded man simply proves that he does not know me; but, all the same, one must have a certain regard for what the neighbours are going to think.

Our garden is overlooked by “Burnside,” and, to a lesser extent, by “The Nest,” and there are people who consider that tea in the garden comes too near a picnic to be suitable for a Sunday afternoon. I was surprised that Miss Sakers, with her vicarage upbringing, should have suggested it. But possibly the flies had something to do with it.

The tea was fairly satisfactory. Eliza would have hardly been mad enough to ask Miss Sakers in, if she had not known that there was a cake in the house. But cress sandwiches would have been a pleasant addition, and I mention them because, with a very little thought, we might have had them. There was the cress actually growing in that very garden at the moment. And for want of just that little thought I suppose cress is to be left till it rots in the ground. It is the kind of thing to make any man angry.

I mentioned it to Eliza afterwards, and all she said was this, “If you wanted your beastly cress” — I am sorry to say that I give her exact words — “why couldn’t you open your silly mouth and ask for it?” The answer to that is that, with one provocation after another, I simply preferred to let everything go.

I had a few words, too, to say on the subject of tact. What necessity was there for bringing Miss Sakers straight into the drawing-room? It is not, as a rule, three times in a month that I drop off for a few moments on a Sunday afternoon, but Eliza bier that there was just the bare possibility of it. All she had to do was to detain Miss Sakers in the passage for a minute or two, pointing out the illustrated almanac that hangs there, and taking care to raise her voice slightly. Or she might have given a loudish cough. Either would have been certain to wake me, and I should not have been discovered in that ridiculous and humiliating condition.

Of course, Eliza had to defend herself, instead of admitting her fault. She said that they could hear me snoring as soon as they turned the corner of the street, and so it was no good to try to make Miss Sakers believe I was not asleep. Exaggeration of that sort I simply treat with contempt. She also asked how she was to know that I had been dressing myself up in newspaper, like some old Guy Fawkes.

This also was quite beside the mark, and when I attempted to discuss it she said that she had never seen Miss Sakers laugh so much in her life before — as if that mended matters — and if she did not go in to lend a hand the girl would never get out that night. Parker, I may mention, had obtained our permission to attend divine service that evening.

I preferred to remain in the garden. There were certainly fewer flies there, and there seemed to be a chance that I might now be able to snatch a few moments’ rest.

When I looked at my watch again it was nearly supper-time. I folded up my garden-chair — these things being ruined in no time if left out — and carried it through with me into the scullery. I had no conception that anything unusual was about to happen. I went calmly in, whistling a hymn-tune as I went.

Eliza said afterwards that, if I had only looked where I was going, it would never have happened. The truth is that if Eliza had only had the sense to tell me that she had borrowed some of those filthy, sticky fly-strings from Mrs. Bast, and hung them up in the scullery, I should naturally have kept my eye open for them.

As it was, I ran my face right into one of them, and before I knew where I was I had got a mouthful of dying flies and fish-glue. Naturally, I made a snatch at it with my hand, and then it stuck to my hand. It also stuck to my hair, and wound round my neck. I made an infuriated dash for the sink, and knocked against another of the abominations. One fly-string would have been ample in that small scullery, as I pointed out afterwards.

Eliza heard what I was saying, and came in to see what was the matter. She said that worse language for a Sunday evening she had never heard in her life before. I may certainly have been betrayed into a few hasty expressions, but I know many men who would have said more. I seemed to have got the filthy stuff all over me; I was all gum and buzz. Even with Eliza’s assistance it was twenty-five minutes before I was in a condition to sit down to supper. A collar, which was clean on only that morning, had simply to be sacrificed; and it is quite an open question whether benzine will do anything for the stain on the necktie.

It has always been a bit of a problem to me why our inventors and so-called men of science do not devote more attention to improvements in the home, instead of wasting their time on flying-machines and other extraneous matters. Take, for instance, the ordinary “catch-’em-alive-oh,” as vulgar people call it. All that is wanted is some simple substance which will stick to flies, but will not stick to anything else. If I only had the leisure to think that thing out for myself, I am convinced there would be money in it.

A GAME OF BOWLS

Eliza met me in the passage as I came in.

“I say,” she said, “has Mr. Minting gone mad, or have you?”

I was not surprised. I had quite expected there would be a fuss.

“If,” I said, “you refer to Mr, Minting, of the glass and china shop, he was sane when I saw him this morning and gave him some directions. What is the matter?”

“Oh, well, six sugar-basins were delivered here this morning, and we’ve got one extra already that we never use. So I told the boy he’d come to the wrong house, and he said it was all right, and your order. I had hoped it was Minting had gone off his head. But if you say it’s yourself, I dare say you know best.”

I pointed to the kitchen door, which was ajar, and then placed two fingers on my lips. I may be peculiar, but I do not think servants should be permitted to overhear anything in the nature of a domestic altercation. I dislike it extremely. I beckoned Eliza into the sitting-room.

“Now, Eliza,” I said, “let this be a lesson to you once for all against hastiness in forming an opinion. Strange though it may seem to you, not one single sugar-basin has been delivered at this house today.”

“I suppose I can believe my own eyes, can’t I?” said Eliza.

“On this occasion you cannot. What you, rather absurdly, mistook for sugar-basins are, as a matter of fact, finger-bowls. We need them. It surprises me that we have done without them for so long. Suppose we gave a dinner-party, we should look very foolish without finger-bowls.”

But Eliza was in one of her obstinate moods. She said that when we had the Prince of Wales and the Shah of Persia coming to dinner, it would be time enough to think about finger-bowls. Meanwhile, a set of new pie-dishes was what was really wanted in the house, and I had better take those finger-bowls back and change them.

I remained firm.

“Well,” she said, “I call it stupid, with the expense of the move still hanging round our necks, to go and throw your money away on stuff that we shall never use as long as we live,”

“On the contrary,” I said, “we shall use them on the dinner-table every night.”

“Well,” said Eliza, “you’ve managed to eat your supper without them for a good many years, and I don’t see the sense of it.”

“Quite so,” I said. “In our early days, when we were comparatively low down in the world, it was supper. At present in this house, for which I am paying no less than forty pounds a year, it is dinner. And other things should be in keeping. Kindly remember that.”

That night finger-bowls did not appear on the dinner-table, and Eliza said she had forgotten them.

“There is such a thing as forgetting on purpose,” I observed sarcastically.

“There couldn’t be,” said Eliza. “Because if you remember to forget a particular thing, you must remember the thing. You can remember on purpose, but you can’t forget on purpose.”

“But,” I said, after thinking it over, “you have just proved the opposite. Because if you would naturally forget something that you decide to remind yourself not to forget then you are intentionally remembering not to forget something that you would otherwise have forgotten. And, conversely, if you decide not to remind yourself not to forget something that you would have forgotten if you had not been reminded, then you are in the position of—”

“Leave it, leave it,” said Eliza wearily.

“It’s all very well to say leave it,” I replied. “Logic was always a weak point with you, Eliza. The fact is that you have not the intelligence to understand my argument.”

“I can understand most things,” said Eliza, “as long as you don’t try to explain them. That’s what sews anybody up.”

I asked Eliza to be a little more careful in her choice of expressions, but I made no further reference to the finger-bowls. However, after dinner I took an opportunity to say a few words to our maid, Parker, on the subject, and she said that she would be sure to remember in future.

Eliza says that whatever else people may say about that girl, at any rate she is thorough. I suppose she is. At any rate, she always makes a point of doing more than you say and it frequently works out all wrong. For instance, I told her that I must have breakfast sharp at eight, and she sometimes has it ready from ten to twenty minutes earlier than that. Eggs and bacon won’t stand it. By the time I come down the food is ruined. The same sort of thing happened with the finger-bowls. I told her as plainly as I could that I wanted her to place a finger-bowl before me after dinner. Next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found not only a finger-bowl, filled with water of a heat that might have cracked it, but also a towel, and a soap-dish with a new cake of carbolic.

And, of course, if a servant sees that a blunder is treated as a joke, that is simply the beginning of the end. After that, she thinks that she can do what she likes, and that it will simply be passed off with a smile. Eliza behaved most foolishly. I can make a joke if I see a real necessity for it, and I can enjoy it afterwards. But when a servant exceeds orders, and does a foolish thing, that is not a joke. Eliza’s mirth was simply misplaced, and I cannot see that she made it any better by saying that it was the way I looked that amused her. A short reprimand, seriously given, is what was wanted.

However, once I set my teeth and make up my mind to carry a thing through, I take some stopping. I had nothing whatever to reproach myself with. I had studied economy. If I had simply followed my own taste, I should have bought the finger-bowls with the gilt rim and the ivy-leaf pattern, and eighteen-pence more is what they would have cost. With the material advance in income that we had recently experienced, finger-bowls were by no means out of the way.

I stuck to my point, and I must confess that I met with less opposition than I had expected from Eliza’s original attitude towards the question. She said that, if I really wanted the blessed things, of course I could have them, as they weren’t worth making a fuss about, but that I had better not buy the solid gold epergne with the diamond trimmings until I had paid off what was owing on the removal.

That was rather unreasonable, as credit had been arranged for and willingly granted. There is a great difference between owing money which you simply must pay now, and owing money which you will pay when the time comes.

But I said nothing at the time, having gained my point, and after this two finger-bowls appeared on the table every evening simply as a matter of course. And that was as it should be. Very nice the table looked — quite a West-End air about it.

As Eliza had met my views in this way, I made a point of consulting her before I purchased a coloured engraving of the King which had caught my eye in a shop window, and would, in my opinion, have made a beautiful picture for the hall. And, as she seemed to feel strongly about it, I left it alone.

This being so, I did not consult her as to my purchase of bulbs in the autumn. However, I kept within limits, buying cheaply at a sale, and she did not appear dissatisfied. On the contrary, she said she hoped the things would grow.

•   •   •

About two months later she had a note from her brother Frank saying that he had to come to town for a day, and would run down to see us about tea-time.

“Very good,” I said. “When you write back, you may say that we hope he will do us the honour of remaining to partake of dinner.”

“If I wrote to him like that, he’d laugh. But, I say, I thought you didn’t like Frank.”

“If he were not your brother, I should say that he was a bumptious, lying, unprincipled cad. As he is, I prefer not to say or imply anything to his discredit; but to you I may admit that I dislike him extremely.”

“Then why do you ask him to dinner?”

“Precisely because I do dislike him. No, Eliza, it is not ridiculous in the least. When he visited us at our old house he was very sniffy and superior. I should like to show him that the boot is now on the other leg, and that we live quite as well as he does. And better.”

“Well, if it’s going to run us into a lot of expense—”

“But it need not do that. We still have one of the two bottles of sherry wine that I received for a Christmas present from my uncle last year. As for the dinner itself, we might begin with a few oysters. You have no objection?”

“Frank never eats them, and I hate them, and they always upset you, and they cost too much. Otherwise they’d do nicely.”

“Well, well, I must think out the question of dinner. Apart from that there is nothing to buy. Our table equipage is perfect. Yes, Eliza, I have never regretted that I bought those finger-bowls, and now I am glad of it.”

Eliza seemed thoughtful. “Well, yes,” she said. “Frank could have mine. I was never particularly keen about it.”

“What do you mean? We should have six finger-bowls. I bought six. It was precisely because I had some such crisis in my mind that I did so. If Parker has broken the other four, then Parker—”

“Oh, keep your hair on. Your blessed finger-bowls are all right. It’s only that they can’t be used just now.”

“And may I ask why?”

“It’s your own fault principally. You went and bought that lot of bulbs, and made so much fuss about having hyacinths in the house, and where else was I to plant them? It’s not as if the bowls were ever being used.”

“You need say no more. The whole thing is ruined. Do not ask Frank. Never ask anybody to anything. I give up.”

“I knew you’d get nasty about it,” said Eliza.

So Frank was not invited. However, he said when he came that he thought of stopping on and having a snack with us, and there was no getting away from it. We were quite unprepared, chops had to be sent for at the last minute, and a more unpleasant evening I think I never spent. Amongst other things, he asked me why I didn’t buy some finger-bowls.

THE RECITATION

“Eliza,” I said, “I want you to look at me.”

She seemed surprised, but she did as I requested.

“Now, then,” I said, “I want you to pay particular attention to the expression of face which I am about to assume, and tell me frankly what you think it indicates.”

I assumed the expression, and Eliza at once said indigestion.

“Not quite right. It was wistful melancholy. I will now change the expression. Try again, and take a little more time to it.”

She looked at me rather doubtfully.

“Same as the other one?” she suggested.

“Now, Eliza, that is simply thoughtless. I told you distinctly that I was going to change the expression. You must know what the word ‘change’ means. That last one was suppressed rage. Once more now. And this time make an effort to—”

“What’s the use? It’s only guessing. You see, you don’t look like what you think you look like.”

“No,” I said “the real trouble is that you don’t think I look like what I do. As it happens, I have made a special study of this subject. Here I have a copy of Mrs. Bewlay’s ‘Home Reciter.’ It is a handsome volume, and the man from whom I bought it assured me that it was acknowledged to be the standard authority.”

“Bought it, did you?” said Eliza. “Oh, well, I suppose every now and then you’ve got to go out and buy something rotten. Else it wouldn’t be you.”

“The book is in no sense rotten. It contains many extracts in prose and verse from the best authors, and Mrs. Bewlay says in her preface that she has taken particular care to exclude anything at all bordering on what it shouldn’t be. Its hints and directions have been most useful to me. The binding makes it an ornament to any drawing-room. And the two shillings I paid for it is a mere flea-bite. Then look at the illustrations. No less than twenty of them, all taken from actual photographs of the editor’s daughter, Miss Agnes Bewlay, herself a talented reciter. Each illustration shows a different expression. All one has to do is to study them with a looking-glass. I spent upwards of twenty minutes on studying three of those expressions — wistful melancholy, suppressed rage, and adoration. And yet when I give you the first two you fail to recognize them. I can’t think what’s the matter with you.”

“Well,” said Eliza, “if it comes to that, what’s the matter with yourself? What are you doing it for?”

“Simply and solely because I have been asked to give a recitation at a public entertainment.”

Eliza dropped her teacup and broke it — one of the best set, of course — and then said I ought not to go saying things like that suddenly. “You’re joking, of course?”

“I am not joking, and I fail to see any reason why I should joke on such a subject.”

“And what did you say when you refused?”

“Your one idea seems to be to annoy me. I did not refuse. Why should I? More than one man has told me I ought to have gone on the stage. Of course, it’s not a thing you’d appreciate. You know nothing about the drama.”

“If you’ve done it, you’ve done it,” said Eliza dejectedly. “All I can do is to see that you do really know the words by heart. The rest we must just leave to Providence. Who asked you, and when is it, and where?”

“It is a smoking concert to be given at the Borstal Rooms, Drury Lane, on Saturday week, at eight p.m. The man who asked me was a clerk in our office of the name of Cobbold. He is getting the thing up, and the proceeds are to go to the widow of an old friend of his, Herbert Benjadale, who lost his life while orchid-hunting in British Guiana.”

“Sounds rum. I thought you’d got Cobbold the sack.”

“He is leaving at the end of the month in consequence of a report which I felt it my duty to make. He would persist in playing the fool in the office, and would not take a warning. The fact is, the man is a born comedian, not fitted for office work at all. I should not be surprised if he went on the halls. That man imitates Mr. Bagshawe to the life; he’d make a cat laugh.”

“Does he imitate you, too?”

“Not so well. In fact, that was one of the things I had to speak about. But he bears no malice. He says I only did my duty, and he may live to be thankful to me. He’s doing a couple of comic songs himself at this concert. He wants a serious reciter as a contrast, and, looking over the men he knew, with a view to voice and facial expression and so on, he picked upon me. It seems to me all simple enough. The only thing I regret is that I shall not be able to take you with me. You see, it’s a smoking concert; only intended for men. I might ask Cobbold to make a special exception.”

“Don’t do that,” said Eliza. “I couldn’t go if there were no other women. Besides, Miss Sakers may be coming round that night.”

•   •   •

The piece selected by me for recitation was “Incident of the French Camp.” This is a poem by Robert Browning, an author of the highest class; now, unfortunately, dead. This piece is specially recommended by Mrs. Bewlay in her admirable work for three reasons; it begins quietly, and then works up; it gives the reciter an opportunity to imitate Napoleon, a great general, though of doubtful morality; it provides a fine dramatic climax.

In fact, the frontispiece is an actual photograph of Miss Agnes Bewlay in this piece, giving her imitation of Napoleon, with the words underneath:

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

A very curious phenomenon of the human memory occurred in connection with this piece. On Monday night I repeated it to Eliza, and had every word perfect. To make assurance doubly sure, I studied it again in the train going to and from the City on Tuesday. On the evening of that day I tried to repeat it again, and the only line I got right was the last one, “Smiling the boy fell dead.” Some scientific gentleman may like to give an explanation of this. Cobbold said definitely that every great actor had suffered from it at one time or another.

I had some difference of opinion with Eliza as to this last line. It was a question of facial expression.

She said, “Why do you grin when you say the last line?”

“Because it says, as distinctly as words can speak, ‘Smiling the boy fell dead.’ I do it on purpose. It’s a sort of illustration. I smile because the boy smiled.”

“Then I suppose you’ll fall dead too, because that’s what the boy did?”

“Enough of that,” I said. “If you merely wish to play the fool, I will take it into the garden and study it there.”

“I won’t say anything else,” said Eliza. “But don’t go and do it in the garden: We are so overlooked.”

She seemed oblivious of the fact that recitations are practically made to be overlooked.

I do not know if other reciters have noticed it, but there is one line in this poem which is specially catchy. It is, “To see your flag-bird flap his vans.” You want to watch yourself over that line. Once you’ve made the mistake of saying, “To see your flap-bird flag his vans,” you go on doing it, and it gives you hard work to break yourself of it.

Cobbold told me that the chair would be taken by a Mr. Parkhurst, who had a large place in the Isle of Wight, and that full evening dress would be worn by performers, but not by the audience. This being so, I purchased very inexpensively a ready-made white waistcoat. I had to give Eliza to understand that one point on which I should not permit any interference whatever was my wardrobe.

I dressed very early on Saturday, that giving me time to go through the words of the recitation once more before taking the train. In the train I tested my memory and found everything satisfactory, except that I said flap-bird by mistake. As it was a fine night, and I had plenty of time, I walked from the station to Drury Lane. Cobbold had told me that I should easily find the Borstal Rooms, as there would be bills outside announcing the concert. However, I walked all the way, down Drury Lane without seeing anything of the kind.

I said to a policeman: “Could you kindly inform me where the Borstal Rooms are?”

He shook his head, and smiled in a kindly way. “Don’t know of any place of that name, sir — not nearer than Rochester.”

I took it that he was newly up from the country, and addressed myself next to an old man who was leaning against the wall of a public-house. He was a disreputable-looking old man, and for some reason my innocent question made him very angry.

“Jest you say that agen,” he said — “jest once more, and you’ll get the front of your ugly fice punched in! I ain’t goin’ ter be insulted by no cock-eyed restyrong waiter like you. Clear art of it!”

It was now past eight, and there was no more time to lose. I took a cab, and even the cab-man didn’t know where the place was. There was nothing else that I could do. I went home, and I can tell you I was pretty furious.

•   •   •

Eliza said that the whole thing was a sell, got up by Cobbold to pay me out for reporting him, and she had had her suspicions of it all along. “However,” she said, “you can take it out of him on Monday.”

The difficulty about that was that Saturday had been his last day at the office. And on Monday I got a letter from him which was as civil as could be. It said: “So sorry that you were unable to be with us at the Dartmoor Assembly Hall, Piccadilly, on Saturday night. I presume that the cause was some indisposition, and I hope it may prove but trifling. You were much missed. Mr. Parkhurst had hoped to ask you down to his place at the Isle of Wight.”

I am perfectly certain that the address he gives in that letter is not the address he gave me before. But there may have been a mistake somewhere. Perhaps they were unable to get the Borstal Rooms, and he forgot to tell me.

Eliza points out that Borstal is the name of a penal settlement near Rochester, and that Parkhurst is the name of another in the Isle of Wight, and that Dartmoor speaks for itself. Very likely. But these coincidences do happen; we see them every day.

It has a queer look, too, that there is no such place as the Dartmoor Assembly Hall in Piccadilly. But that may be only carelessness.

The one thing I cannot explain is why all the clerks burst out laughing when I walked into the office on Monday morning; and, if Cobbold had only given me his address, I should certainly write and inquire.

•   •   •

But of one thing I am quite certain. I am not the kind of man that puts his hand to the plough and then throws up the sponge. I have spent time and money on that recitation, and I mean to recite it. And if Eliza won’t lead up to it one afternoon when Miss Sakers is here, I shall lead up to it myself. And if they don’t like it they can lump it.

THE TYROLESE EXERCISES

My grey flannel trousers had been put away for the winter with some of Pigley’s Patent Preservative. This is sold in penny packets; and so little is needed that one packet might very well last a man a lifetime. Quite a small pinch of it will not only keep moth away, but will destroy any moth that already happens to be there. Eliza, who is quite enthusiastic about it, says that it would suffocate an elephant. The only real trouble about it is that the smell does undoubtedly cling. My system, with clothes that have been put away with the preservative, is to hang them on a line in the garden for twenty-four hours. This removes the worst of the smell, and the rest passes off slowly in use. In about a week or ten days it becomes hardly noticeable. It is a case where tact helps, as it does in so many things in life. For instance, Miss Sakers surprised us once by a call when the suit I was wearing still carried a considerable reminder of the patent preservative. I simply turned to Eliza and said carelessly: “My dear, I am afraid the plumber has not made quite a success of that gas leak.” Of course, Eliza had to mess the whole thing up by saying that we had not got any gas-leak, and she didn’t know what I was talking about. But otherwise it would have passed off very nicely.

However, it was about those grey flannel trousers that I wished to speak. They had been made to my order by a fair-price tailor two years before, and were still distinctly good. They had been worn only on my annual holidays, and occasionally on a fine Saturday afternoon. Light flannel trousers on a Sunday are things I have always set my face against, whatever the opinion of the majority may be. This spring I had given them twenty-four hours on a clothesline in the garden — naturally in a secluded spot where they could not possibly be overlooked — and, Saturday afternoon being fine and sunny, I took them up to my room to put on. And a very sharp disappointment I got.

I joined Eliza in the garden. “Hullo,” she said, “I thought you were going to put on those grey flannel trousers?”

“That had been my intention,” I said. “However, I find that my express orders have been disregarded. Those trousers have been washed. Washed, mark you. And, as was inevitable, they have shrunk. It is impossible to make them meet at the waist without causing me great physical discomfort. There’s twelve-and-six thrown on the dust-heap, sacrificed to your obstinacy. Why couldn’t they have been dry-cleaned at home by our own simple process, as I directed?”

“They were,” said Eliza.

“Not washed?”

“No.”

“But could a chemical preservative in the form of a dry powder cause material to shrink?”

“No,” said Eliza, “but a man getting fatter might cause his clothes to get too tight for him.”

I must admit that the idea had already crossed my mind once or twice, but I had shut my eyes to it. I was now very seriously disturbed. I went to the station and weighed myself on one of those penny-in-the-slot machines. I have been told that these are often inaccurate, and I could only hope that this was the case now.

I talked it over with Eliza on my return from the station, and she said that, of course, the only thing for it was more exercise. So I mowed the lawn twice and rolled the paths. And what was the result? At dinner I had an appetite that it was hopeless to fight against. The thing is what is called, I believe, a vicious circle.

On Sunday, Eliza, finding me slightly depressed, said that, as a rule, men did not get any thinner as they got older, and there was no use in getting snappy about it. If I really wanted to deal with it, a good twenty-mile walk was what she would—

“Thank you,” I said. “I am not snappy. Far from it. Nothing of the kind. But I had some of your advice yesterday, and what did it lead to? The matter may not be of the first importance, but I propose to take it in hand myself and deal with it scientifically.”

“As how?” she asked doubtfully.

“As I say. You will see tomorrow.”

I felt sure that there must be some literature dealing with the subject, and on the following day in the City I made inquiries, during the luncheon hour, at three bookshops, explaining that I was doing it on behalf of a friend who was rather sensitive in the matter. Finally, I purchased a copy of Mossop’s “Tyrolese Exercises,” with Chart. Considering the size of the book, the price (five shillings net) seemed to me a bit stiff. But there were numerous illustrations of Mr. and Mrs. Mossop engaged in the Tyrolese exercises, and the price of these scientific works always runs high. I should be very sorry to see Eliza photographed in the costume that Mrs. Mossop was represented as wearing, of which I will only say that it omitted much which should have been present. But perhaps I am especially particular.

The idea of Mr. Mossop’s system is both admirable and simple. Noticing that in nations where much climbing was done obesity was of rare occurrence, Mr. Mossop devised a series of exercises, calling into play exactly the same muscles that would be required in, say, an ascent of the Matterhorn. The regular use of these exercises for the absurdly short period of fifteen minutes per diem is practically guaranteed to prevent any undesirable frontal extension, and ultimately produces a harmonious development of the entire frame.

I showed the book to Eliza. “Here,” I said, “is not only the means of dealing scientifically with my little trouble—”

“Your little what?” said Eliza.

“Not only the means of dealing scientifically with my little trouble,” I repeated firmly, “but also another interesting addition to our library.”

She happened to open it at the picture which represents Mrs. Mossop doing the back-stretch in the third position, which was not the one I should have selected. She sniffed.

“I shouldn’t leave this book lying about,” she said.

“Well,” I said, “of course, for the purpose of gymnastic exercises anything like constriction of clothing is to be avoided. That is well known.”

“Very likely. All the same, Parker has been strictly brought up, and I don’t want her to give us notice just as she’s getting into our ways.”

She went on turning over the pages, and seemed to get more and more despondent. “I hope you understand the way these things go,” she said. “They’d fairly flummox me. Here’s a picture of a man with twelve arms in convict’s dress.”

“Nothing of the kind,” I said. “The man is not a convict. Those arrows are simply intended to show the direction in which the arms are to be moved. And the man has not got twelve arms. He has only two, and the others are put in with dotted lines to show the different positions in which they go in the course of the exercise. I have studied that one particularly. You begin like this. See.”

I gave her a demonstration, and if the vase had not been put on the very edge of the mantelpiece it would never have been knocked off. I said that I hoped this would be a lesson to Parker to use her brains when dusting. Incidentally, too, this demonstration proved the truth of what Mr. Mossop says as to constriction of the clothing. Eliza had two buttons to sew on for me, but why she should have been so upset about it is more than I can imagine.

Thoroughness has always been rather a motto of mine. Mr. Mossop, in the book, only demands fifteen minutes a day for the Tyrolese exercises, but I gave thirty — fifteen before breakfast and fifteen on going to bed. And once one had realized the necessity for a clear space and properly adjusted clothing, no further damage was done. I also cut down (considerably) my consumption of Embridge’s light dinner ale. I may add that it had never been in any way excessive.

At the end of the week I felt that I had derived so much benefit that I might safely appeal once more to the verdict of the weighing machine on the station platform. I did so, and it registered an increase in weight of five stone eleven pounds, and then returned my penny. It was so obvious that the thing had got completely out of order that I thought it my duty to mention it to the station-master. He said that boys would get tampering with those machines, and if I liked to leave the penny with him he would hand it to the collector when he next came round. He seemed to have missed my point absolutely, and so I told him.

After that I lost all feeling of confidence in public weighing machines, and decided to expend no more money on them. But I continued to persevere with the Tyrolese exercises. I could now do them all without reference to the chart, and I told Eliza that if she cared to invite a few friends I might be persuaded to give a demonstration which would be interesting to them. I thought she seemed rather to fall in with the idea at the time. Her one objection was that the harmonious development of the entire frame had better be carried a little further first. However, in the end nothing came of it.

After I had continued with the exercises for about a fortnight it occurred to me that, after all, there was a very simple test that I might make to show the effect of the Tyrolese exercises. I went upstairs and once more tried on my grey flannel trousers. If I had found them an inch short round the waist I should have been amply satisfied. It would have shown that progress had been made. But to my surprise and delight I found that those trousers were now, if anything, too large. I could have done Tyrolese exercises in them without the slightest risk.

Eliza was in the garden, and I hurried out to her.

“Eliza,” I said, “I will ask you to observe what I am wearing. A fortnight ago they were too small round the waist by three inches. Today I wear them with comfort. I know it is not what you have expected—”

“Yes, it is,” Eliza interrupted.

“I think not,” I said, with a smile. “You were prejudiced against Mr. Mossop. You never believed in the Tyrolese exercises. You showed it in several little ways. And now you see that you were wrong and I was right. This is a triumph for Mr. Mossop’s system. This is what comes of dealing with a thing scientifically.”

“Funny,” said Eliza, “I knew I’d made a pretty neat job of it, but I thought you’d have noticed it, all the same.”

“Noticed what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“About the piece I let into the back of those trousers, You can’t say that I don’t look after your clothes properly now, can you?”

“Perhaps I can’t. But you ought to have told me. I don’t like things to be done behind my back.”

“Well,” said Eliza, “it was just there where it was wanted.”

•   •   •

I have by no means lost faith in the Tyrolese exercises, and I am going on with them. But in future I shall use a tape-measure. Nobody will let a piece into the back of that.

THE CIRCLE CLUB

On Eliza’s birthday I presented her with a plated sauce-boat and six (best quality) handkerchiefs, and, in spite of her playful accusation of extravagance, I could see that she was pleased. That is how I fix the date of my invitation to become a member of the Circle Club. It was on the morning after Eliza’s birthday at breakfast-time that I received a prospectus of the club and a letter from the secretary. The latter was written on the club notepaper and at the request of the committee. I admit I was gratified.

The possibility that I might one day become a member of a London club had already occurred to me. I had, in fact, mentioned it to Eliza as one of the things which might naturally be expected to follow on our advance in position and income. (She at that time seemed rather to pooh-pooh it.) But in the matter of modesty I am, perhaps, inclined to overdo it. I had never expected to be singled out by a West End club for a special invitation. Such, however, was the case. And the terms used were most flattering. I may say frankly that I was pleased.

The printed prospectus informed me that the club had been established for the benefit of gentlemen who, while resident in the more fashionable suburbs, were in the habit of coming to town frequently for the purpose of pleasure or business. “Such,” said the prospectus, “will find in the Circle Club a pied-a-terre of the most recherché description. The support of many noblemen and gentlemen of the highest position has already been secured, and it is confidently expected that the Circle Club will speedily take rank with the most exclusive and desirable of those historical associations for which London is justly celebrated. The cellar and cuisine are of the finest class,”

There were illustrations of two of the rooms showing palms, electric lights, and furniture on a most lavish scale. The entrance fee was to be ten guineas and the annual subscription five.

This last item would, I admit, have definitely put me off. One may be ambitious, but one does not throw large sums of money about like that. However, the secretary’s letter put quite a different complexion upon it. It ran as follows:

“Dear Sir, — In consequence of the great success which has attended the inauguration of the Circle Club, particulars of which are enclosed, an enlargement of the premises has been proposed. In view of this, the committee have decided to elect a few additional members. A selection has been made of the names of certain gentlemen of acknowledged character and position to whom this offer may be made, and I have very much pleasure in acquainting you that your name is upon the list. Should you accept membership, the usual entrance fee of ten guineas will be waived in your case, the annual subscription will be reduced to two and a half guineas, and you will be entitled to rank as a foundation member with the associated privileges. You will incur no further liability of any kind.”

A very nice letter and very well expressed, in my opinion. Happening to find myself in the same carriage as Mr. Bunt on my way to the City that morning, I thought I would have a word with him about it. He is a man that knows the world, a chartered accountant, and, so far as mere money is concerned, my superior, I suppose. His wife drives her own pony, and he employs a regular gardener, and is rather inclined to treat everybody with contempt.

We are not exactly on social terms, nor even after my recent advance up the social ladder should I quite have expected it. Still, we speak when we meet in the train, though he always gives me the impression of not saying a word more than he can possibly help. I was not sorry to let him know of this rather flattering offer that I had received.

“Good morning, Mr. Bunt,” I said. “I wonder if you would spare me a word of advice. I’ve just had a communication, requiring an answer, from the secretary of the Circle Club, and—”

“So did I,” grunted Mr. Bunt. “No answer. Burn it. Bogus. Swindle.”

“You don’t think—”

“No,” snapped Mr. Bunt, and built up a newspaper like a stone wall between us.

I made some further observation on the subject, but he did not appear to have heard it.

It seemed to me a coincidence that Mr. Bunt had also received an invitation. But it was a shock and a surprise when I found that another had been sent to Mr. Avis of “Birdmore.”

You have only to look at the facts. “Birdmore” is a £30 house, and Avis, on his own admission, has already had the gas cut off once. His father was a french-polisher who committed suicide, his wife’s father failed in the green-grocery, and he never pays his rates until he gets the summons.

There is nothing of the snob about me, and I am affable enough with Avis when we happen to meet. Still, if Avis is to be described as a gentleman of acknowledged character and position, then words seem to me to have lost their meaning. Avis himself thought it must be a mistake. I put it down to a confusion of two similar names, myself.

At the office I had some talk with young Gillivant, who can generally be depended upon for good up-to-date information on social subjects. He is placed with us merely in order to learn business, his father being in reality a Justice of the Peace, and (I am informed) a man of great wealth. He keeps his son rather short, but that, perhaps, may be wisdom. Young Gillivant keeps in touch with the fashionable world. You would never guess it to look at him, but he goes into titled Society.

Gillivant distinctly advised me to join the Circle Club. He said that it was a new club, and every new club was a bit of a try-on, but not necessarily bogus. He said that if I passed the chance, and tried for one of the old-established clubs, I might have to wait for some time, and even then it might end in disappointment.

He told me things about one of them, the Athenaeum, which quite surprised me. It may be all he says, but fancy an entrance fee of forty-two pounds! I should want some very satisfactory references from them before I even consented to think about it. Gillivant gave me several hints on club etiquette and was most useful. Being a member of the National Liberal Club himself, he was in a position to speak with some authority. He certainly left me with the impression that a club was an essential, and that in my case it would probably be the Circle Club or none.

In the eye of the imagination I could already see “Circle Club” engraved on the lower right-hand corner of my visiting card — Gillivant had told me about that. But I quite expected a considerable argument with Eliza. To my surprise, she now seemed in favour of it. Of course, she may have been influenced by my generosity (already mentioned) on the previous day. But the reason she gave was different:

“The money seems rather a lot,” she said, “but, after all, it works out about a bob a week. And if it mixes you up with men a bit, it may do you good. You see, you don’t do any of the things that other men do, and you don’t seem to know any of the things that they know.”

“Perhaps, on the other hand,” I said, “I know some things that they do not.”

“Of course,” she said. “And it’s been getting worse lately. Only the other day you were showing that girl the right way to clean knives, and that’s not a thing I like to see. I don’t say you should take to drink and gambling, but you might keep out of the kitchen and act more like an ordinary man.”

Well, I am not an ordinary man. I admit it. And I am far from being ashamed of it.

However, that settled the question. I sent my subscription, and received a few pleasant words of congratulation on my election from the secretary, together with a copy of the rules and a formal receipt.

•   •   •

Looking back at it now, I am inclined to think that Mr. Bunt was right.

On the Saturday after my election I said to Eliza: “I may be later than usual this afternoon. I shall probably look in at the club for a cup of tea and a glance at the magazines.”

“Do, dear,” said Eliza.

I did. The club was in Greenchurch Street, and I found that Greenchurch Street was in Soho, which was not what I had hoped. It was a small street, too. After a time I found the Circle Club. It consisted of a number of rooms over Anginello’s Restaurant, and you went upstairs to it. I do not know why I had expected an entrance-hall on the ground floor, paved is squares of black and white marble, but that had been my idea.

At the the top of the stairs there was a small glass cupboard with a man in livery asleep in it. I woke him up, and (as directed by Gillivant) told him that I was a new member and gave him my name.

Though awake, he remained very meditative. After a time he said “Yessir,” and closed his eyes again.

“And is the secretary, Mr. Arbuthnot, in?” He seemed to be thinking this over for a while. Then he opened his eyes again. “Can’t say as to that, sir; but Mr. Johnson’s in the library.”

“Well,” I said, “perhaps you would come round with me yourself and point out the principal rooms.”

He shook his head. “Not allowed to leave this box, sir. But you can’t make any mistake. And Mr. Johnson’s in the library.”

The man seemed to me stupid. However, I left my hat and umbrella in the hall, and began my explorations. I found three rooms with their names painted on the doors. On the billiard-room door a notice was pinned, saying that it was closed during redecoration. The dining-room did not interest me for the moment, and I opened the card-room door a few inches and peered in. I just got a glimpse of four men seated at a table, and then a deep voice roared out: “Shut that door!”

If I had not been taken by surprise, I should have asked the speaker who the devil he thought he was talking to. As it was, I just shut the door, leaving myself in the passage.

On the floor above I found two other rooms. One was marked “Secretary’s Room. No Admittance.” The other was the library. So I chose the library, and went in.

This, clearly, was one of the rooms illustrated in the prospectus. I recognised it by the tassels on the curtains. But it had looked much larger in the picture, and had contained many fine palms. I could only find one palm now; it was small, and it was not genuine. The furniture was rich, but dirty. There were finger-marks on the newspapers, and crumbs on the carpet, and cigar-ash everywhere.

At the writing-table a fat man in a frock-coat sat, with a pile of letters before him. He seemed to be writing answers to them, and was swearing under his breath all the time. As there was no one else in the room, I gathered that this was Mr. Johnson. I rang the bell for my tea, picked up a magazine at random, and took a chair which was comfortable but dusty.

I then found that I had inadvertently selected a copy of The Osmic Inhaler: What it is and what it does. As I had not come there to read advertisements, I got up, and this time was careful to choose a real magazine. I also rang the bell again.

A few minutes later I rang it a third time. The man at the table now said “Damn” out loud, went to the door, and shouted “Frederick!” I recognized Frederick when he came in as the servant I had seen in the glass cupboard; I now noticed how much too big his livery was for him. He seemed afraid of Mr. Johnson, who told him sternly to take my order.

The tea was nearly cold, and twopence more than it should have been, but otherwise satisfactory. What was curious was that on the cup and saucer the words “Anginello’s Restaurant” were imprinted. While I was drinking the tea, Mr. Johnson said that if I cared for a game of piquet he could spare half an hour. I explained politely that I did not know the game. He then said that the club billiard-room was shut, but there was a table over the way if I liked to give him a beating. To this I returned a similar answer.

“Is there any game you do play?” he asked.

“Draughts occasionally,” I said. “But far too much time, in my opinion, is wasted on—”

“Well,” he interrupted, “we’ve got no draughts, and the spillikins are worn out. So I think I’ll be off.”

“Before you go,” I said, “you must permit me to thank you for interfering on my behalf just now. The waiting here is surely very bad, isn’t it?”

“Beastly,” he said. “I’m the proprietor.”

•   •   •

I do not know whether it was the proprietor, or Frederick, or one of the card-players who stole my umbrella, but it was stolen. A few days later I received a curt notice that the club would be closed for a month for the annual cleaning. It certainly looked as if it wanted it, though Gillivant says that it is unusual to close a club in the middle of the season. At the end of the month I got another notice that, owing to want of support from the members, the proprietor of the Circle Club had been compelled to discontinue it. And I was referred to Rule a This was to the effect that no annual subscription or part of an annual subscription was under any circumstances recoverable from the proprietor.

I very nearly consulted a solicitor about it, but there is such a thing as throwing good money after bad. Eliza was to blame for her advice, but I have said very little to her about it. However, I have fifty visiting cards, with the name of my club engraved in one corner, and I intend to use them. It will be something saved out of the wreck.

THE AQUAPEN

I think I have mentioned that young Gillivant, who is learning business with our firm, receives an allowance which is hardly proportionate to his father’s wealth. As he is not free from an occasional burst of extravagance, he sometimes finds himself pressed for ridiculously small sums of ready money.

The other day he produced a gold-mounted fountain-pen from his pocket. “Look at that,” he said to me bitterly. “Present from my Aunt Elizabeth. It’s a new dodge, called the Aquapen. Like an ordinary fountain-pen, except that you fill it with water, and it comes out ink. Got chemicals of sorts in its inwards, I reckon. Well, that cost twenty-five bob. It’s worth twelve, and I can’t find a son of Attenborough in London who’ll give me more than two bob for it. I’m not asking them to lend. If they’d give me three-and-six for it, I’d let them keep it. I’ve never used the thing, and never shall. And me without a cent until tomorrow morning!”

I examined it carefully, and glanced through the directions which were in the box with it. They seemed simple enough as long as you followed the diagram carefully and did not confuse the different parts. It was obviously a high-class article.

“Well, Mr. Gillivant,” I said, “I very rarely do anything of this kind, but, if you really do wish to dispose of this pen for three-and-sixpence, I am prepared to—”

“Say no more,” said Gillivant. “It’s yours, and I see my way clear to lunch. Fancy lunching on Aunt Elizabeth’s fountain-pen! Golly, what a life!”

I had rather a triumph over Eliza with my Aquapen on my return home. “I have often required a fountain-pen for business purposes, and today I have purchased one,” I said.

“How much do you think?”

“Might be worth five shillings,” said Eliza.

“The price new — and this pen is practically new — is twenty-five. But I can generally see an opportunity when one comes in my way, and I bought it for three-and-six. It is an absolute novelty, known as the Aquapen. You fill it with water, and the water is immediately converted into ink.”

“Will it work?” said Eliza doubtfully.

“I have no doubt that it will, At the back of the printed directions are various testimonials (one of them from a Bishop) to the effect that it works perfectly. However, we will put it to a practical test.”

Eliza brought me a glass of water, but I said that I would just run through the directions again before filling the thing. They were a shade more complicated than they had seemed at first. There were fourteen different things you had to do in filling the Aquapen and getting it ready for work, and you had to do them all in the right order. There was also a list of ten special warnings against things which you he not do unless you wished to ruin the pen altogether, and they were nearly all of them things that you would naturally have done if you had not been warned. It was a very nervous business.

After about half an hour, Eliza said rather hastily that she hoped I would wake her when I was ready to start. “I am ready to start now. This is not a toy, but a highly scientific patent, and one has to be quite certain that one gets it right the first time one tries it. After that it can be done in a moment. Now, then, if you will read out the directions one by one, I will carry them out with the pen.”

Eliza took the paper and read:

“Unscrew cap A.”

“Good!” I said. “I have got that done. What next?”

“Depress perforated plate B on spiral spring V round tube D E until orifice F is exposed to view, taking care not to confuse this with orifice O, which is to be found on the—”

“One moment, Eliza. You are going too fast. First let me depress perforated plate B on spiral spring C.”

After a few minutes, Eliza said:

“Well, you must have done that now.”

“There’s no must about it. I have not done it. And the reason is that I cannot find perforated plate. I thought at first that this was it, but I can see that it is not.”

“Let me have a look,” said Eliza, and bent over me.

“How would it be,” she suggested, “if I took a hairpin and propped up that loose bit in—”

“Ruin the whole thing. I must think this out for myself.”

But, funnily enough, it was Eliza who discovered what was wrong. I had unscrewed the wrong cap at the other end of the pen — cap Q instead of cap A. After that everything went swimmingly. It was an anxious moment after I had squirted the water into it, for there was always the possibility that some mistake had been made. But as soon as I tried to write with it I was reassured. I have never in my life had a pen that wrote better; the ink was certainly pale, but still it was, beyond any possibility of doubt, ink.

As I handed it to Eliza to try, I observed that there seemed to be practically no limit to the marvels of modern science.

“Well,” she said, “it took you two hours to get this thing started, and you could have got an ordinary pen and ink going in two seconds. Don’t see where the catch comes in, myself.”

“It took two hours only because I was new to it. It will not take ten minutes next time. Suppose I were in some place where I could get water but no ink, how useful this would be!”

“There isn’t a village in England where you can’t buy better ink for a penny than ever this silly old machine will make. Never mind. You can take it to the North Pole with you next time you go.”

As it happened, Eliza was quite wrong. I tried it after breakfast next morning, and the ink was already much darker. The oscillation in the train did it good, and within eleven hours of filling, the ink in that Aquapen could hardly have been distinguished from ink except by an expert.

I showed it to several men that day and they all agreed that it was one of the most ingenious things they had seen. Young Gillivant said that if he had money to spare he did not know that he wouldn’t think about offering to buy it back. That was the only happy day I ever had with that Aquapen.

A week later I said to Gillivant, “Look here, I’ve given that Aquapen of yours a pretty extended trial, and I find it is not as you represented it. I think, in common honesty, you ought to take it back.”

“What’s the matter? Won’t it work?”

“It did the first day. On the second day I lent it to Mr. Bagshawe to sign the wages cheque, and — well, he was very angry about it — told me never to bring the infernal thing into his office again. I’ve overhauled it and refilled it, and for the last three days it has refused to make any mark of any kind. I bought it as a pen, and it is not a pen.”

“You must have done something rotten with it. Bet I’ll spot what it is. Give me hold of it.”

I gave it him, and he tried to sign his name with it. It was precisely as I said — it refused to mark.

“Ah!” said Gillivant, “I expect one wants to press a little harder—”

“On no account,” I said. “That’s what Mr. Bagshawe did, and—”

But I was too late. The Aquapen simply streamed ink at him. I offered him a recipe which I had found useful myself for removing ink stains from linen, but the way in which it was received did not encourage me to resume the negotiations at that moment.

On the following morning, however, I said that he had seen for himself that the Aquapen was a complete failure, and I should like to know what he felt he ought to do about it.

“Well,” he said, “you don’t deserve it for ever letting me touch a dangerous thing like that, but I’ll give you the straight tip. The most you could get out of me would be three-and-six, if I had it, which is not the case now. Take it to the makers in Holborn, and they’re bound to give you a new pen or the cash price.”

I did not think that the makers were bound, but I thought it quite worth-while to try it. I entered their shop with the air of a man who means to stand no nonsense, and showed an assistant the pen. “Cost twenty-five shillings a few weeks ago, and is not worth twenty-five pence. What’s the good of a pen that won’t write? I call it an absolute—”

“Permit me,” interrupted the young man, taking the pen from my hand. He had smooth black hair, parted in the middle, and the air of a very patient nurse dealing with a fractious and partially imbecile child.

“Mind you,” I said, “either I must have a new pen or my money back.”

“Twenty-five shillings?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

As far as I could see, all that young man did was to unscrew one of the caps and then screw it on again. Then he drew a sheet of paper to him, and wrote a few lines. There was no reluctance in starting and no excessive flow of ink. It could not possibly have gone better.

“I don’t think I understand, sir,” he said. “What is it you are complaining about? The pen is in perfect order. Try it for yourself.”

I tried it. “Seems all right now,” I had to admit. “But it has given me a deal of trouble. If you press hard on the nib, it—”

“Of course. But you are specially warned on the paper of directions not to press hard, and are told what will happen if you do. If you don’t mind, I’ll take the name and address of the retailer who charged you twenty-five shillings for this. It is our fifteen-shilling quality, and we do not allow it to be sold for more or less than that.”

“Well, strictly speaking, I did not buy it from a dealer. I got it from a friend of mine for three-and-sixpence, but twenty-five shillings was what he said his aunt paid for it.”

“Will there be anything else this morning?” said the young man.

He said it very patiently, but to my mind he was most offensive. What he ought to have said was that he quite understood how the mistake occurred. By omitting that, he practically called me a liar and a swindler. And what he did actually say was only another way of asking me to get out of the shop.

I said, “Nothing more, thank you. Good morning.”

He never even answered me. I was much upset — angry, in fact. I did not see young Gillivant again that day, or he would have had the rough side of my tongue.

For two days my Aquapen worked as well as anybody could have wished, but my old confidence in it was entirely sapped. It always came as a surprise to me when I found that it really did write. One morning I had the happy idea that now was the time to sell it, either to Gillivant (who had explained to me that he must have mistaken the price pencilled on the bottom of the box) or to some other man in our office. If I waited till it struck work again, I might never get my money back on it at all. So when I started for my train I slipped my Aquapen into my pocket.

I should have hardly thought it possible that so small a thing could have held as much ink as it disgorged into my pocket on the way. The articles totally ruined or seriously injured by it were: 1 coat. 1 waistcoat. 1 shirt. 1 under-garment. 1 pair of Berkeley braces — the special Aquapen ink acting as a solvent of rubber. 1 handkerchief. 1 cigarette case of (imitation) lizard skin. 3 “Pride of the Harem” Turkish cigarettes. 4 halfpenny stamps.

When I discovered the disaster, I must have slightly lost my head. I took that Aquapen and hurled it out of the carriage window. For a few seconds it gave me a kind of savage satisfaction that I had got rid of the thing. But afterwards I reflected that the three-and-sixpence was now lost irretrievably.

At the office Gillivant came up to me, looking slightly worried. “I say,” he said, “I’ll give you three-and-six for that old Aquapen.”

“I cannot do it,” I said coldly.

“Well, five bob, then. My Aunt Elizabeth’s coming to see me — worse luck — and she’s certain—”

“I repeat, I cannot do it.”

“Seven bob is my last, final offer, and you ought to take it. You know the pen’s no good.”

“I do,” I said. “And because I knew it was rubbish I threw it away. It is no longer in my possession.”

“Golly!” said young Gillivant. “I’m afraid I’ll have to buy a new one, for the old girl’s bound to ask about it. Fifteen shillings! I could do better with the money.”

“I can’t pretend I’m sorry,” I said. “You sold me a defective pen which has caused me much worry and actual financial loss. Now you have to pay fifteen shillings. This will be a lesson to you.”

“Hold on,” said Gillivant. “I’ve got it. I’ll tell her I’ve lent the pen to you. Oh, yes, that’ll be all right.”

“Then,” I said, “you will be making a most unwarrantable use of my name.” But this did not appear to affect him.

PSYCHIC INVESTIGATIONS

“Eliza,” I said one evening, “I do not say it at all by way of blame, but do you think that we two pay sufficient attention to developing the psychic side of our nature?”

“I’ve got about enough to do developing your psychic socks,” said Eliza. “How you come to go through them as you do I can’t think, unless you’ve got nails sticking up through the soles of your boots.”

“Had that been so, it would have caused me extreme pain, and I could hardly have failed to notice it. I admit that these repairs, necessary unfortunately, make some demands upon your time, but the psychic side of our nature is far more important.”

“Well, you never used to worry about it. Where did you hear about it? What is it?”

“It is — there is no way of putting it in a few words. Of course, I had known something of it before, but I heard more from a gentleman whom I happened to get into conversation with that day I lunched at the vegetarian restaurant. You remember?”

“Yes, I remember. You asked to have dinner put half an hour earlier. And what did he say?”

“He said that I might possibly have great psychic gifts lying hidden for want of cultivation. I might be a hypnotist, or clairvoyant, or medium, or automatic writer, and never know it for want of psychical development.”

“But he didn’t happen to mention what that was?”

“Not in so many words. But, naturally, it’s — well, it’s doing the sort of thing that — er — brings that kind of thing out.”

“Doesn’t tell you much. These mediums do table-rapping, don’t they?”

“That might of course come into it.”

“I can do that myself.”

“Really? You surprise me. Why have you never told me?”

“Might have done if I’d happened to have thought of it. Why, it’s years and years since I’ve done it. But I could do it when I was a girl and I expect I can do it now.”

“Then you have in you, Eliza, the beginning of a great psychic gift. We must have a demonstration at once. This is most interesting. It must be gone into.”

“I don’t mind,” said Eliza. “Wait till I’ve finished this sock.”

I asked her if she preferred any particular table. She said any old table would do, and it would not be necessary to turn down the lights, or to have a musical-box playing, or to concentrate the mind.

“It’s just a bit of fair heel-and-toe spiritualism,” said Eliza, which was not at all the kind of language that the gentleman at the vegetarian restaurant had used in discussing the subject.

She spread out her hands on the table. “Now, then,” she said, “one rap means ‘Yes,’ and two raps mean ‘No.’ Are there any spirits present?”

There was a loud and decided rap under the table. Yet I could see for myself Eliza had not moved.

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Will they answer questions?” Eliza went on; and again came the one rap for “Yes.”

“Now,” said Eliza to me, “you ask any questions you like.”

“Have I,” I said, “any great psychical gifts unknown to myself?”

There came two sharp raps in quick succession, and then Eliza jumped up and burst out laughing. “Why, you old silly, you needn’t gape like that. It’s just a trick. I learned that when I was clerking at Butterson’s before I ever met you. It was a girl called Bella Ware taught me, and she got it from her father, who worked for Blackley’s — one of those professional conjurers that they send out for parties. Look here, I’ll show you how it’s done, if you like. It’s easy enough, if you’ve got the right kind of joints for it.”

She showed me how it was done, and it was certainly ingenious and most interesting. But, as I pointed out to Eliza, it did not affect the question. I knew, of course, that tricks and fraud were sometimes used, but it was the real genuine thing which interested me.

“In fact,” I said, “it’s something I’ve been reading in the local paper that has turned my mind to it again. I don’t know if you remember the case of that Yorkshire manufacturer who was missing two years ago. Mordaunt his name was. The detectives hunted for a fortnight and failed to find him. And then a clairvoyante wrote to the family and told them the exact spot in which the body would be found; a search was made, and the clairvoyante was right. The man had drowned himself, in a pool in a disused quarry.”

“Yes, I remember something about it,” said Eliza. “Rum, wasn’t it?”

“That same clairvoyante, Mrs. Bunbury Peck, is going to lecture on psychic force in the small room of the Town Hall on Thursday night, and the lecture is to be accompanied by a series of experiments which, the advertisement says, have hitherto baffled explanation. Now that will be the real thing, and we must on no account miss it.”

“Don’t know about that,” said Eliza. “What’s the least you can get in for?”

“The back seats are a shilling.”

“And you can go to the cinematograph for sixpence, and they’ve got a new programme there next Thursday.”

“We might go to the cinematograph next week.”

“Oh, well,” said Eliza, “if you’re really set on this lecture, we’ll go. I’ve never met the lecture yet that I could keep awake through, but I may have better luck this time.”

•   •   •

The performance was to commence at eight-thirty, and the doors were opened at eight. At eight sharp Eliza and I were there, and so far nobody else had arrived, except a lady in full evening dress, with rather a shabby cloak over it. She was talking to the man who took the money, and examining the plan of the seats.

This lady looked at Eliza and Eliza looked at her, and next moment they were kissing one another. They both talked at once, and they both laughed while they were talking. They went on and on, and it appeared that they were old friends. I caught such phrases as, “Well, this is an unexpected treat — surprise of my life — thought about you hundreds of times — should have known you anywhere — no, not changed a hair.”

Eliza seemed to have forgotten all about the entertainment. People were streaming past us into the room, and our chance of getting a decent seat seemed definitely gone. It really began to look doubtful whether we should get seats at all.

“Eliza, my dear,” I said, “sorry to interrupt you, but—”

“This is my husband, Bella,” said Eliza. “Miss Bella Ware, who’s known professionally as Mrs. Bunbury Peck.”

Miss Bella Ware shook my hand heartily, and said that she was delighted to know me, and that it was jolly good of us to come and see her little show. She looked delighted, too, which I’ve found unusual.

“Now, then,” she said to Eliza, “give me your tickets.” Immediately our money was returned to us, and we were given reserved seats (at five shillings each) in the front row of all. We both protested, but it was in vain.

“The idea!” exclaimed Miss Bella Ware. “The best seats in the house are what you’ll have, and I wish they were better still. And pay for them you shall not. So if you make any fuss about it, I won’t come round to a whisky and soda with you afterwards. Here, Eliza, do write the address down, and then I must skip and do my face up.”

In another moment she had rated off.

“Eliza,” I said, “what are we to do about it? We haven’t got any—”

“I know,” said Eliza. “But there’s a quarter of an hour yet, and our tickets are reserved. We can get home and back in six minutes, and it won’t take me two to tell Jane what to do.”

It was a most remarkable evening. From my place in the front I saw Mr. Bunt, who was in the three shilling seats, and gave him a nod, which rather pleased me. Mrs. Bunbury Peck had quite a colour when she was chatting with us, but on the stage she was very pale and had dark lines under her eyes which had certainly not been there before. Her whole manner was changed, and might have been described as being on the languorous side. I could not understand all she said about psychic force, and (from what I saw of her afterwards) I have some doubt if she understood it herself, but the experiments were really wonderful. The audience was most enthusiastic, I quite looked forward to seeing the lady again at “Meadowsweet,” and putting a few questions to her on psychical matters.

She had told Eliza that we were not to wait for her after the lecture. “I’ve got to pack my traps and wash my face, and it will be a quarter of an hour before I can get away,” was what she said. However, after seeing Eliza home, we both agreed that the gentlemanly thing to do would be for me to return and offer my escort, and I did so.

Miss Ware appeared to be in the best of spirits and talked to me as if she had known me all her life. In the first three minutes she told me that she would clear eight pounds out of the show that night and make up for a frost at Surbiton the week before, and that when she was vaccinated she had it done just above the ankle, and sundry other matters of an intimate character.

She admired “Meadowsweet,” and was kind enough to say that she knew perfect taste when she saw it. She praised the whisky, and in this respect her actions confirmed her words. She found that the sandwiches were the very best she had yet struck, and she said that she had known at once from the look of me that I was a sportsman. Decidedly, a pleasant woman, though what I believe is called Bohemian. She had resumed her natural colour and manner, and she smoked four of my cigarettes — consecutively, of course.

“I say, Bella,” said Eliza, “what made you take and call yourself Mrs. Bunbury Peck?”

“Well, my dear, I go knocking about all over the place by myself, and if I say I’m a married woman, that saves me a lot of bother. I used to be ‘Saranatha: the Oriental Problem,’ but dad thought that fancy style was about played out. He said if I did the same business with the plainest name I could think of, it would be more of a novelty, and people would be more likely to believe it was genuine.”

“But isn’t it genuine?” I asked.

“No, my old duck, it ain’t. The things I did tonight were all kid, pure kid, and nothing but kid. And very well they went, too.”

“But the lecture — the things you said — don’t you believe in it?”

“The gentleman who wrote that patter for me believed in it, and I believe in it when I’m saying it. But off the stage I don’t think about it. You see, this is my business.”

“Still, you are really a clairvoyante, Miss Ware. I mean, you did discover where Mordaunt’s body was.”

“Well, in a way I did, but it’s not the way it got into the papers. I’d been talking about the missing man to dad, and had a dream about it that night. Thought I saw a big stone cross by a roadside, turned off up a narrow path, and found a red-headed man lying asleep on a pile of stones on the right. I told dad about it, though I didn’t think anything of it myself. But he said he would work it for what it was worth. If it didn’t come off, it wouldn’t matter, and if it did, it was an advertisement for life. He wrote the telegram and kept it pretty vague except that he put in a bit about bracken and heather. There was no stone cross in the neighbourhood where Mrs. Mordaunt lived, but there was a stone monument with a cross carved on the bottom of it. There was a track leading up the hill all right, and they found the pore man in a quarry on the left of it — drowned in a pool. He had black hair, too. Still, Mrs. Mordaunt swallowed it whole and sent me a fiver, and there was enough in it if it was properly worked up. Dad saw to that. Every place where I go to lecture that story — dad’s edition of it — is sent to the local paper. It was a bit of a coincidence and a bit of luck, but it’s done me a lot of good. Of course, you’re a sportsman, old dear, and you won’t say a word about this to anybody.”

I promised her. She apologized for leaving as early as 12.30, but she said she doubted if she would be able to get into her hotel if she stayed later. I escorted her to the hotel, and, of course, the place was shut up and the lights were out. But Miss Ware got in all right. The man who let her in was inclined to grumble, but she said that she could see he was a sportsman, and that seemed to soothe him.

have decided to discontinue psychic investigations. They do me no harm — in fact, I had a very pleasant evening — but they seem to make other people so abominably dishonest.

MELLINGHAM

I Have always considered August to be the best month for a holiday. So when Mr. Bagshawe told me that my holiday would be the first fortnight in August, and that I could take it or leave it, he was really meeting my wishes in a way which, had he known it, would probably have pained him.

This gave us a clear month in which to make our plans. On going into my accounts, I found that the sum which could be reasonably allotted to holiday expenditure was quite satisfactory.

In previous years our holidays had, by an unfortunate coincidence, generally fallen at a time of financial stringency. I have known what it was, after a holiday, to wait for a fortnight before I could send the requisite postal orders to Herne Bay and get my watch back. This year the general outlook was singularly bright.

There was plenty of time, as I have said, to settle which seaside place should receive our patronage. We generally talked it over in the garden after dinner. The way that garden had come on was something remarkable. And it would have looked still better but for the penny-wise-pound-foolish policy of the landlord in refusing to meet us three-quarters of the way in the matter of a small greenhouse. Perhaps the garden was not the best place for the discussion, but the weather was tempting. Eliza was always seeing things which wanted doing, and — well, a man may go into the question of Southend for the summer, or he may push a heavy lawn-mower; but, unless he is a man of exceptional physique, he cannot do both at once. We came in when it got dark; but when you have been up and at it all day, so to speak, the intelligence is not as fresh as it was a it begin to — I mean, one may be tired. Eliza says that one night I fell asleep in the middle of saying the word “prohibitive,” in reference to the fares from London to Scarborough.

Anyhow, at the end of a fortnight, though we had practically talked our way through an ABC railway guide for the February before last, which I had borrowed from next door, we had come to no decision. It was just as if Eliza wanted to turn over the whole world before she picked a place; and she is just the same when she is choosing a hat. If I mentioned one seaside place, she asked questions about another. If I found the fee would do very well, she said some of these little country vicarages went very cheap at this time of the year. And when I began to look over the advertisements for vicarages, she said that what she would love would be to get out of England, if it was only for ten minutes, so that she could say she had done it. The people in the house opposite once went to the Channel Islands, and have talked to Eliza about it.

And then one evening she made up her mind definitely. A catalogue of greenhouses had been sent me, and this rather put her out.

“We can’t afford it,” she said. “Besides, it’s the law of this country that if you put up a greenhouse, and the landlord chucks you out, then the landlord sticks to the greenhouse. And a pretty rotten law I call it, too.”

I assured her that I had no intention of buying a greenhouse, and had merely applied for the catalogue because I took an interest in the subject, and that in any case I was not responsible for the laws of England. But, unfortunately, she was further annoyed by my suggestion that she should send round a card to our friends stating that she was at home on the first and third Saturdays.

“You’ll make me cross in a minute,” said Eliza. “Yes, you send out word that you’ll be at home in the new vine to all the dukes and duchesses on the hundred-and-one Monday after Advent. Do; and see what you’ll look like. If I want to make my friends laugh, I’ll take some other way of doing it. I never in all my days saw such a—”

“Pray calm yourself, Eliza,” I said. “I was merely suggesting that you should conform to an ordinary social custom. There is no occasion for a fuss. In any case, you could not send out cards now, as we shall be away on our holiday, if you can make up your mind where you want to go.”

“I settled that this afternoon. Margate.”

“Margate?”

“Yes. You needn’t sniff. Miss Sakers has been there, and says she can recommend rooms. A Mrs. Widdicomb.”

Miss Sakers is a lady by birth, by education, and by natural refinement, and this had some weight with me. After a little talk, I directed Eliza to write to Mrs. Widdicomb. It appeared that she had already done so, in order to save time.

In due course, Mrs. Widdicomb’s reply came on a postcard. It ran as follows: “Mrs. W. regrets is full August but can recommend next door Mrs. Pangrave clean reasonable bath no dogs.” The letter was without punctuation, and not what I heel call well expressed. However, Eliza wrote to Mrs. Pangrave.

Mrs. Pangrave sent a postcard, stating her terms. These made Eliza angry. She wrote back on another postcard that there seemed to be some mistake, as she was asking for Mrs. Pangrave’s charge for furnished apartments, and not for the price of the freehold.

I said that, speaking generally, prices were pretty high in August.

“Then Margate won’t do. We must get something that’s not so much run after. Just take the newspaper, and if you see anything likely in the advertisements, read it out.”

Presently I read as follows: “In the heart of sunny Surrey. Romantic, old-world farmhouse. Peaceful and retired. Good cooking and attendance. Fishing and golf in the vicinity. Terms very low to desirable visitors.”

“Now that does sound a bit of all right, don’t it?”

“You need to be on your guard against slang expressions, Eliza. It certainly seems attractive. But I’m afraid it will be snapped up.”

“Don’t you believe it. That’s an evening paper, and by tomorrow morning I can be down there. It’s not far to go. Ivy Farm, near Framlin. Where’s that old ABC? If there’s any snapping to be done, we’ll do it.”

We breakfasted early next morning, and Eliza got away directly afterwards, so as not to miss a chance. If everything was satisfactory, she was to engage the rooms at once. There was a sharp shower in the course of the morning, and I hoped that Eliza was safe in the hospitable shelter of Ivy Farm.

On my return from the City, I found Eliza on the sofa, which is very unusual with her. She seemed tired and depressed.

“And what about Ivy Farm?” I asked at once.

“Off. Right off. So was part of the roof, and the rain coming in. ‘Romantic’ was a misprint for ‘rheumatic.’ Name of the people’s Smith. He failed in the grocery, before he took to farming and failed again. The whole of the garden’s given up to growing stinging-nettles. The woman was drunk when I arrived. The butcher only calls once a week. They live principally on rabbit, and the rabbit they were cooking when I was there had been kept too long. It’s four miles from Framlin, and I had to walk both ways in the rain. A two-year-old timetable ain’t much good. That train had been altered, and I had to wait three-quarters of an hour. It’s given me the hump. For goodness’ sake let’s talk about something else.”

I told her of a rather interesting conversation I had had with Pridgeon. He is much older than I am, but at the office he is my subordinate. We had happened, curiously enough, to be talking about greenhouses. He said that it was quite simple to put one up which would not become the property of the landlord. He had done it himself, and had built the greenhouse himself. He gave me a lot of details — prices of material, measurements, and so on — which I wrote down.

Eliza got up off the sofa and asked a lot of questions, and went over some rough drawings which I had made with the help of that catalogue. Suddenly she said she had got it.

“Got what?” I said with some surprise.

“Got our holiday and our greenhouse and everything else. We don’t go away. We stop here, and you build the greenhouse. You were always handy with carpenter’s tools, and if Pridgeon could do it, you can. We can pay for the materials, go away for an excursion or a weekend, and still have money left over.”

“But people always go away for a holiday.”

“Don’t you think so much about what people always do. We’re not ill, We want a greenhouse a lot more than we want a change. I’m sure it goes to my heart to think of all those bedding-plants being wasted.”

There certainly seemed to be something in the idea. “But what am I to say when I’m asked where I’m going for my holiday? It’s all very well, but a man doesn’t want to be looked down upon.”

“Well, if you feel like that, you can say you are going to Mellingham.”

“Where’s that?”

“If asked, romantic, old-world village in Sussex, no railway station. Then nobody can look it up. As a matter of fact, I don’t know that it’s anywhere. I bought a bun at that rotten place Framlin this morning, and Mellingham was the name on the bag. That’s how I came to think of it.”

“Well,” I said, “there’s a certain risk about it, but, by Jove, we’ll do it!”

At the office next day young Gillivant asked me where I was going for my holiday.

“Mellingham,” I said, and he seemed quite satisfied.

Presently, old Pridgeon asked me where I was going for my fortnight in August.

“We shall run down to Mellingham.”

“Where’s that?” said Pridgeon.

“In the heart of Sussex — just a peaceful, retired little village.”

“Beautiful country,” said Pridgeon. “You couldn’t do better.”

•   •   •

It was certainly the most successful holiday we ever spent. Eliza went into the greenhouse question with enthusiasm, and was most helpful. She bought a second-hand door for it at a sale for a price less than I had thought possible. She found a man who was quite a good carpenter, and willing to work half a day in exchange for old clothes — and they really were old, too. She did nearly all the painting herself. The total cost came considerably under our calculation.

And when that was done, Eliza saw the advertisement of a cheap day-trip to Calais and back. It would run into money, and, as I pointed out, the passage might mean inconvenience and even suffering for both of us; but Eliza seemed set upon it. As it happened, there was a complete calm. It had been calm for days. Nobody on board was ill at all. We had some hours at Calais, a most excellent luncheon at the station restaurant, and a stroll through the old town. I could dilate upon this topic, but I have since written at considerable length “A Traveller’s Impressions of Calais,” and I am proposing to publish this separately, as soon as I can find an illustrated magazine with sufficient enterprise. I was pleased to note that English was understood at the restaurant and English money accepted. This should go far towards cementing what has been called the entente cordiale.

On the first day of my return to work, Mr. Bagshawe, with a geniality which is unusual in him, asked me where I had spent my holiday.

“Well, sir,” I said. “We were in France part of the time, but mostly at Mellingham, in Sussex.”

“Beautiful county,” he said absent-mindedly, and proceeded to another subject.

THE INSULT

Mr. Wyse was a partner in the firm, being a nephew of Mr. Bagshawe’s. But it was a very junior partnership, with limited powers. Mr. Wyse had not been with us six weeks before I saw that he was not the man of business his uncle was. He had neither the knowledge nor the habits of it. Sometimes he’d not be at the office till the afternoon, and sometimes he would stop away altogether. He was much more affable than Mr. Bagshawe, but not in a way I liked. Sometimes I would give him a perfectly serious answer to what seemed a perfectly serious question, and then he would burst out laughing. I dislike such goings-on.

One day one of our clerks, quite a young junior boy, came to me and said, “Mr. Wyse said I was to tell old stick-in-the-mud he wanted him.”

“Nobody of that name in the office,” I said. “You’d better go back and tell him so.”

“Not me,” said the boy. “He’d fire me out.”

“Very well,” I said. “Get on with your work then.”

Presently in comes Mr. Wyse, pretty furious. “What are you doing?” he said. “I want you — just sent for you.”

“For me, sir?” I said. “Very sorry. That wasn’t the name the boy gave.”

And then he chose to treat the whole thing as a joke. But I don’t like such manners myself.

He had got a friend, a Mr. Harnet, who was always in and out of the office. Often, passing through, he would have a few words of conversation with me on the subject of politics of the day and so on. He was friendly and pleasant enough, but there was a nasty flashy look about him that was not at all to my mind.

One day he overtook me as I was going out to lunch, and asked me in an airy way to come and have a drink with him. At the time I confess that I took it rather as an honour. I said that I would do so with pleasure. I had ginger-beer, beyond which I never go during business hours, and he had whisky and soda.

Presently, dropping his voice, he asked me if I knew anything about a certain bit of business. It was a Government thing, and we were tendering for it, and the figures of our tender had been through my hands that morning. I did not at the time think that he meant any harm, especially as he was a friend of Mr. Wyse’s. All the same, Mr. Bagshawe had laid me down my rule, and I stuck to it.

“No, sir,” I said, “I know nothing about it.”

“You don’t know if your firm’s tendering?”

“I can’t say at all. Mr. Wyse might be able to tell you.”

“Well,” said Mr. Harnet, “you’ve been with your people some time, and you hold an important post there — ought to be better paid, too. What you don’t know you could easily get to know, I think. Suppose you did happen to get the figures for that tender, and happened to mention them over a friendly glass with me, nobody would be harmed, and it would be worth a fiver to you. It’s done every day in the City, and nobody thinks—”

“You’re no gentleman!” I said, “and I don’t want anything to do with you. There’s the money for the ginger-beer, and I’m off.”

I had never had such a thing happen to me in the whole course of my experience. I was very much upset by it. I went back to the office — for any attempt to eat luncheon after that would have been a farce. As bad luck would have it, Mr. Bagshawe was away at an arbitration, or I should have one straight to him. He was to be back by four, and I determined to wait till then.

But soon after three in came Mr. Wyse, and to my astonishment Mr. Harnet was with him. I could hardly believe my own eyes. However, that being so, it was clearly my duty to let Mr. Wyse know at once what kind of a man he was associating with, and in I went at once to his office.

Then came another surprise. As soon as they saw me they both burst out laughing.

“It’s all right, old stick-in-the-mud,” Mr. Wyse said. “Don’t look so woebegone. You’re not hurt. You’ve been spoofed. Mr. Harnet bet me there was not a man in our office he couldn’t My, for a fiver. I took the bet and named you. It’s all right. You’ve won me my bet, and there’s a sovereign for you.”

I am afraid I rather lost my head then. I said, “You can keep your dirty money. I don’t want it. And I don’t want any more tricks of this kind either. A plucky lot you’d have done for me if I’d lost my berth through your foolery.”

Mr. Wyse began to get angry. “People have been known to lose their berths before now for impertinence. Keep a civil tongue in your head and clear out.”

But I had quite lost control of myself. I went on talking. I reminded him how many years I had been with the firm, and what my character had been. I came there to do my work to the best of my ability, and not to be insulted; and I would sooner go than put up with it. Then I said he ought to be ashamed of himself, and banged the door as I went out.

And then came what I believe is called the reaction. I wished I had said rather less, and expressed it differently. Towards the end of the afternoon Mr. Wyse and Mr. Bagshawe were shut up together, and every moment I expected to be called in and given the sack. Under no circumstances did I wish to lose my place, and just at that time it was particularly necessary I should keep it. In a few months’ time I should be having extra expenses in connection with an event to which I had been looking forward with considerable satisfaction — expenses for nurse and doctor and so on.

I thought of going and apologizing to Mr. Wyse. But I was afraid that if I saw the man I should lose my temper again.

It came to be time for me to go, and Mr. Bagshawe and Mr. Wyse were still shut up together, and they had not yet sent for me. This seemed to make it all the worse. I should have the thing hanging over my head all night.

In the train I made up my mind not to say a word to Eliza about it. There seemed to me just a chance that I might scrape through with an apology and promises for the future. And, naturally, just at that time I did not want Eliza to be worried at all. Of course, if the worst came to the worst, she would have to be told, but it would be better to wait till then.

So I went into the house whistling, and when I saw Eliza I smiled intentionally.

“What’s happened?” she said. “What’s the matter?” It is really wonderful, the intuition some women have.

“Nothing,” I said. I should certainly have believed that I said it in an airy and light-hearted way but for Eliza’s answer.

“Sit down at once and tell me about it.”

Well, things being so, I did tell her, and without attempting to defend myself. “I blame myself for it,” I said.

“The only thing I blame you for,” said Eliza, “is that you didn’t say twice as much, and put it twice as strong. My word! if I had that precious Mr. Wyse here, I’d talk to him. The idea of such a thing, with a man in your position in the office, and all! Why, I couldn’t have respected you if you hadn’t let out at him a bit. Do him good.”

It was indeed a day of surprises. It had never occurred to me that Eliza would take it like that.

“Yes,” I said, “it may do him good, but it won’t do us any good. It’s pretty certain I shall get the sack, and I don’t want to be out of work just when—”

“You’re not going to get the sack, you old silly. Mr Bagshawe and Mr. Wyse were shut up for an hour together, weren’t they?”

“Rather more than that.”

“Well, if Mr. Bagshawe were angry with you for being disrespectful, how long would it take him to fire you out? By all that you’ve told me, about two minutes. No, he’s got a rough side to his tongue, and he don’t take any trouble to make himself pleasant. But you always said he acted fairly and business was business with him. You’re not going — you needn’t fret about that. I dare say Mr. Bagshawe will call you in and give you a bit of a dressing-down, for the sake of discipline, and if he does you’d better swallow it quietly. But that’s the most there’ll be to it.”

I was by no means sure that she was right, but somehow after that my spirits revived considerably.

“Still,” I said, “there’s the suspense. It’s like that thing one’s always reading about, the sword of — what was the man’s name? — sword of Dam — something or other.”

“Even if you can’t remember, you might behave yourself,” said Eliza.

“Sword of Damocles,” I exclaimed. “Of course. Knew it as well as I know my own name.”

Mr. Bagshawe sent for me as soon as he arrived at the office.

“Mr. Wyse reported you for gross insolence yesterday afternoon. Said you would have to go. Got anything to say about it?”

“I am afraid I was insolent,” I said, “but I had a great deal of provocation, sir. Perhaps Mr. Wyse told you the circumstances?”

“Yes. What was your grievance? We can’t know if a man’s to be trusted if we never test him. I’ve tested you twice myself since you’ve been here, though you knew nothing about it. Want to be insolent to me about it?”

“No, sir. But it’s not quite the same thing. A test made quietly in the office for a good reason is one thing. This was different: I don’t think Mr. Wyse had any doubt about me, or he would never have betted. And he allowed a stranger to make a very insulting proposal to me just for his fun. It — well, it upset me.”

“So you made a fool of yourself. If you’d come to me quietly with your complaint, you’d have been in the right — I’m not going to pretend I approve of what Mr. Wyse did. As it is, you’re in the wrong. Luckily for you, there’s been nothing of this kind against you before. Also, Mr. Wyse and myself didn’t quite see eye-to-eye — well, we’ve agreed to separate, and he won’t be here again. Bound to have happened. Here am I with the whole work thrown on my shoulders; one partner ill and another gone — and never any use when he was here. How am I to get through it? Tell me that.”

“Well, sir, if there were anything that I could do—”

“If there wasn’t you’d be a fool. You’ve been here long enough to know the routine, haven’t you? And it looks as if you were to be trusted, so long as you can keep your temper. You’ll have to help me — Pridgeon can do your work. Here, take these letters. Dictate the answers as you think the should be. Let me see ’em as soon as they’re typed. Work in Mr. Wyse’s room for the present. Quick as you can, please.”

I took great trouble with those letters, and I think they satisfied him. On only one did he make any comment, and that as it happened was a score for me.

“Your reply to Penworth Sons too civil by half. Couldn’t you see it was a try-on of theirs?”

“Yes, sir. But — er — I thought it better in view of the other business we have with them just now, the—”

“Yes. I’d forgotten for the moment. Right.”

And so it went on for weeks. I had the most responsible things to do. People of importance who had come to see Mr. Bagshawe were handed over to me instead. I did most of the work that Mr. Wyse did, and I may fairly say I did it a deal better. There never was a word of praise from Mr. Bagshawe. If there was the least little thing wrong, I heard from him about it. He made no bones of keeping me until seven or eight and never thanked me. Most days he repeated that he had not the faintest intention of making me a partner, and warned me to keep my tongue in check for the future.

I do not know what my new position is, for I have never been told. I once heard a clerk say to a visitor, “Mr. Bagshawe is out, but I have no doubt the manager could see you.” By the manager he meant me, and I did not correct him. Mr. Bagshawe did not even speak of an advance in my salary. But he has paid me the advance — another fifty a year — and very welcome to Eliza and myself in view of the great occasion approaching. When I thanked him, all he said was, “Try and earn it.”

Considering this change in my position and that I am now on many occasions practically representing the firm, I have been particularly careful in the matter of office dress. Everything very quiet. Coloured ties are quite a thing of the past. Neither Mr. Bagshawe nor myself ever wear anything but black. At one time I was inclined to a bowler hat if the weather were bad, or to a straw hat if the weather were fine and hot. But that sort of thing would be quite out of place now. I always wear a silk hat in the City, and so does Mr. Bagshawe.

If insults always turned out like this, I could put up with another two or three.

“NAME THIS CHILD”

Mr. Bagshawe had received my telegram, explaining why I should be an hour late at the office that morning. His reply was handed to me just as I was starting for the train. It ran: “Not wanted here today, nothing doing; congratulate.” This kind and thoughtful message was very welcome. The nurse seemed rather disappointed, though, when she saw me back in the house again. She said all that was wanted now was peace and no interference, and that it would be better for seers concerned if I simply went to bed. And after some hesitation, and making one or two final suggestions, that was what I did.

The nurse was a capable woman — Eliza said she was perfect — and everything went as well as possible. But from the day she entered the house till the day she left it she seemed in a perpetual bad temper with me. If I pointed out the slightest thing that in my judgement ought to have been done, she always asked me if I wanted to kill the child.

I received many congratulations at the office, but old Pridgeon seemed a little annoyed at my manner. “You shouldn’t behave as if you had invented babies,” he said. “If they hadn’t been known before your time, you’d never have had any time.”

The birth of our child was duly announced in The Times newspaper. Mr. Bagshawe reads The Times and a financial paper every morning. From things he has let drop, I believe he is profoundly dissatisfied with both journals, but he never changes. I doubt if he admits the existence of any other papers. The day the notice appeared, just as I was leaving the office, he surprised and pleased me by offering to be one of the godfathers to the child — “to that brat of yours,” was how he phrased it. “Can’t do ceremony,” he added. “Get a proxy.”

I need hardly say that I accepted at once. I expressed my sincere gratitude, and said that this was indeed an honour. It is true that in making the offer his language was not what I should have called well chosen, but the way he carried the thing through subsequently was simply princely. He sent a cup, plate, knife, fork, and spoon, all in solid, hallmarked silver, and a five-pound note to start a bank account for the baby. Eliza’s brother Frank, who was to be the other godfather, said, the other man having pretty well covered the field, it looked as if he himself ought to get through on a shilling hymn-book — a remark that struck me as being in the worst possible taste. That man says things which revolt me.

If that boy had been a girl, there would have been no trouble whatever about his names — or perhaps I should say her names. But this not being so made it quite different. (The expression is a little faulty here, but I think the meaning can be grasped.)

The fact is that Eliza all along had a presentiment that it would be a girl and this presentiment was confirmed by a remarkably lifelike dream that she had, in which she started for Shoolbred’s, but got into a crowded church by mistake, and the parson stopped his sermon to congratulate her on her daughter’s success in the pole-climbing, upon which the whole congregation rose and cheered, After that dream she was so certain that it would be a daughter that she declined to consider any other possibility, and names were decided upon accordingly.

So if the boy had been a girl, he would have been called Gladys Kate — that is to say, she would have been called that. Gladys was a name to which Eliza and myself were both partial, and Kate was Eliza’s mother’s name. There was the whole thing cut and dried, and no further discussion was needed.

But the girl being a boy, her — I should say his — names had still to be settled. The first name was easy enough. It happened that Mr. Bagshawe’s first name is the same as my own — a coincidence which I take rather as a compliment — so in bestowing that name upon my son we were calling him after his father and after his godfather at one stroke.

It was the second name which made the trouble.

“I think,” said Eliza, “that Frank will expect the boy to be named after him.”

“It does not seem to me necessary,” I said. “I prefer Lionel.”

“If it comes to preference,” said Eliza, “the name I should really like would be Algernon.”

Just then a note came in from Miss Sakers, to say that if as godmother she had the privilege of choosing one of dear baby’s names she should like him to be called Anselm. To my mind, when a boy goes to school, and has to take the rough with the smooth, he is a good deal handicapped by such a name as Anselm.

I observed that it was impossible to please everybody.

“Well,” said Eliza, “it’s very worrying. Nurse says, ‘Why not take and call him William?’ and seems rather set upon it. And it is natural, somehow, that she should have a voice in the matter.”

“Better give him three dozen names at once, and I’ll step down and ask Parker what she would like to suggest.”

“Now,” said Eliza, “it’s no good getting cross about it. Here we are within twenty-four hours of the angel’s christening, and nothing’s settled. And it doesn’t seem possible to settle anything without offending half the friends we’ve got.”

“They should mind their own business. It seems to me that people take a liberty in suggesting anything or expecting anything; There was old Pridgeon laying down the law at the office this morning. ‘If you intend your boy for the City,’ he said, ‘call him Whittington, and he’ll be lucky.’ He’s got nothing to do with it, and so I told him.”

“Well, Whittington isn’t half a bad name,” said Eliza. I have never known her so vacillating about anything as she was about the choice of my son’s second name. I admit that I had come to no absolute decision myself.

“Not quite such a good night,” the nurse reported next morning. “I think she was too much worried yesterday about baby’s second name. Late last night Miss Sakers wrote saying that if Anselm were not liked, either Constantine or Wilberforce might be substituted. Such nonsense I have never heard in my life. As I said, why can’t you take and call him William, and be done with it?”

I had not the slightest idea why that nurse wanted my son to be called William, and I do not believe she had the slightest idea either. People go sticking their oar into another man’s pie, and too many suggestions spoil the broth, as the proverb says. I was so irritated by it that I said to Eliza that for two pins I would cut out the second name altogether.

“Good idea!” exclaimed Eliza. “Why on earth didn’t you think of that before? The boy will have his father’s Christian name and surname. And neither Frank, nor Miss Sakers, nor anybody else can be offended, because they will all be left out together. That’s what we’ll do.”

And that is what we did. But to Mr. Bagshawe I put it rather differently. I said: “After all your kindness, sir, we’ve been wishful to call the boy after you.” After a pause I added: “It seems rather like taking a liberty, but I happen to have the same name myself.” He neither resented it nor seemed pleased about it. He said “Ah,” and then proceeded to matters of business.

The only difficulty that is likely to arise is from confusion between my son and myself. This has not caused much trouble so far, because Eliza never calls the boy by his name, but by anything which she happens to think of at the time, “du siweodlekin” predominating. Also her voice in addressing the boy is an octave higher than in addressing me.

But the other day I found at the house a cardboard box addressed to me by name, with the “Esquire” properly added. I found inside it a soft ball of wool and a toy rabbit. I have asked Eliza to mention, in thanking Mrs. Burbidge for her present to the boy, that we should take it as a favour if, in any future correspondence with him, she would be careful to add the word “Junior” on the address.

•   •   •

The other evening I could not help contrasting in my mind our position as it is now with our position a few years ago. Increased income, better house and garden — the greenhouse is our own — greatly improved position for myself at the office — the room which was Mr. Wyse’s has been handed over to me permanently — notable advances in the social direction. I thought over these things with a good deal of satisfaction.

“Eliza,” I said, “there cannot be the least doubt about it. We really are getting on.”

“I should think we are, indeed,” said Eliza. “Why, everybody who sees him admires him. I’m sure, when I take him out, it’s almost embarrassing, the way people turn round to look at him. And clever? Cleverness is no word for it. I can tell you, if everything isn’t just as his majesty likes it, he soon lets you hear about it.”

There was a row overhead which appeared to indicate that everything was not just as he liked it at the moment.

“Yes, Eliza,” I said, “but you don’t quite see what I was referring to. It was more—”

But Eliza had already run upstairs.