Although Battersea is far from being a fashionable part of London there
are pleasant little flats to be had there, overlooking the park, for
those who are indifferent to the advantages of a smart address.
One of these is shared by Beth Appleby and her friend Mary Lambert.
Beth Appleby makes an unsatisfying income by casual journalism, relying
chiefly on the small but regular payments made by a syndicating agency
for a weekly letter on London life. This is widely circulated in
provincial papers. Miss Lambert dances fairly well and sings badly.
She obtains engagements of uncertain duration in revues and musical
comedies. There are times when she envies the steady weekly income
paid to her friend by the syndicators. There are other times when Beth
Appleby thinks that dancing is a better way of earning a living than
writing. Pens may be mightier than swords, but legs are often more
profitable than either.
The two girls were together in their flat one sunny morning at the end
of May, just such a morning as makes young people long for pleasure and
makes work of every kind extremely irksome, and, for most of us--though
the thing seems self-contradictory--the want of work more irksome
still.
Beth was at her writing-table, her pen in her hand, a sheet of paper in
front of her. She had written the words "Lilith lisps" and then come
to a dead stop. This was not surprising. Lilith had already lisped
four times since breakfast. Beth lacked matter for a fifth and, like
Rosalind's orator in a similar case, felt strongly inclined to spit.
Mary lay back in the most comfortable chair in the room with her feet
on another. She had a cigarette between her fingers which she put to
her lips occasionally but without much satisfaction. She was meditating
disconsolately on the failure of the last show in which she had danced,
a disaster which brought her face to face with the difficult task of
getting another engagement.
"I wonder," said Beth irritably, "if there's anything in the world left
for Lilith to lisp about."
"There's me," said Mary. "'Lilith lisps that Miss Lambert, the charming
young danseuse who has won the hearts of London playgoers, is thinking
of accepting a tempting offer to go to New York.'"
"I'd do that and more for you, Mary, dear," said Beth, "if I thought
it would be the slightest use. But it wouldn't. Lilith's delightful
lispings aren't read by anybody except the wives and daughters of
greengrocers in Muddleborough and such places."
"A provincial engagement would be better than nothing."
"Besides," said Beth, "Lilith can't be always lisping about you.
It's only a fortnight ago that I had you 'robed in a novel and daring
creation' at a garden party given by Jimmy. He was rather stuffy about
it afterwards. He said that if any of his aunts had seen the paragraph
they'd have been down on him for not asking them to the party. I rather
think he was afraid that if I wrote anything more of the kind he might
be forced to give a garden party."
Jimmy--spoken of in this familiar way by both girls--is the Earl of
Colavon, of whom James Hinton said that his tastes were sporting and
dramatic.
"Let's invent another new frock," said Mary. "Next to having one, which
I can't, the most amusing thing would be to imagine what it would be
like if I could. I'll give you the details. All you have to do is to
say that you saw me in it at a reception in Lambeth Palace, given by
the Bishop of London."
"It's the Archbishop of Canterbury who lives at Lambeth."
"All the better. It sounds far grander for poor little me and less
likely to be contradicted. An archbishop can't possibly know who wears
what at his receptions. And, anyhow, he'll never read anything you
write, Beth, darling."
"I'll tell you what I'll do for you if you like," said Beth. "I'll make
Lilith lisp that you're one of the patrons of Aunt Agatha's pageant.
She's got a bishop, so you really might be asked to a reception in a
palace. And she's got Sir Evelyn Dent. What she wants now are a few
literary and artistic stars to brighten things up a bit."
"I'll do that all right for her, if she'll give me a decent contract
and pay for rehearsals."
"I don't fancy Aunt Agatha can pay anybody for anything."
"Well, I'm not going into it for the love of art; but if you can put
my name down as a patron it might be some use. Almost any kind of ad.
pays, and it isn't every day I get the chance of appearing in print
alongside of a bishop and a Prime Minister. Sir Evelyn Dent is Jimmy's
uncle, isn't he? And he used to be Prime Minister."
"Not quite," said Beth, "but as near as doesn't matter."
"What's the thing about? English history, I suppose. If it's Fair
Rosamund we might work in a dance. I could do something graceful in a
long skirt which wouldn't shock the bishop, holding the cup of poison
in my hand. Your aunt could be Queen Eleanor if she liked. I'd do it
for ten pounds and exes."
"Nothing doing in that way, I'm afraid," said Beth. "It's about
smugglers."
"Well, there's that Nautch Girl dance of mine. It's not bad at all.
And if your aunt can't pay I dare say Jimmy could screw a tenner out of
that uncle of his. It would be quite worth it to the show. No feeling
of stuffiness about that dance. I should think that pirates--you said
pirates, didn't you?"
"Smugglers."
"Much the same thing. Smugglers or pirates are sure to be mixed up with
nautch girls, whatever they are. Or at all events girls of some kind.
I don't mind calling it a geisha dance if they like. I could borrow a
kimono."
"'Lilith lisps,'" said Beth, taking her pen again, "'that among the
patrons of the Hailey Compton Smuggling Pageant is Miss Mary Lambert,
whose Nautch Girl dance has just delighted London. The wide appeal
made by this pageant--the most magnificently staged show ever produced
in England--will be understood when it is realised that among those
interested, besides Miss Mary Lambert, are Sir Evelyn Dent, the
Bishop of ...' remind me afterwards to find out what he's bishop of.
'And....' Now did Aunt Agatha mention anyone else? I can't remember.
Anyhow, we'll put in Jimmy. He won't mind. 'The Earl of Colavon, whose
name stands _facile princeps_ among our sporting peers of the younger
generation.' Thank heaven, there's another lisp. That makes five. If
I'd three more I'd be through with the beastly things for this week,
and I'd take you out on top of a bus to Kew or somewhere to get a
breath of fresh air."
Fortune was kind to Beth Appleby. While she was still biting the end
of her pen Lord Colavon came into the room. He brought with him an air
of breezy cheerfulness, very like the weather outside, and a gaiety
natural enough in one who was not compelled to write weekly "lispings"
for his daily bread and ran no risk of losing his income through the
failure of an apathetic public to appreciate a Nautch Girl dance.
"Jimmy," said Beth, "help me out."
"The precise thing I've come to do," said Jimmy. "New 8-cylinder Pallas
Athene, sports model, guaranteed 70 miles an hour on the road, did
over 100 at Brooklands, stands panting at the door. Dine at Oxford.
Dine at York. Dine anywhere you like. Home by moonlight. Is there a
moon? Must be a moon in May. 'The young May moon is beaming, love.'
The poet wouldn't have said that if there wasn't a moon in May. Dashed
particular about facts, poets have to be."
"Oh, Jimmy," said Mary. "Just wait one minute till we get on our hats.
Come, Beth."
But Beth Appleby had a conscience, or that fairly satisfactory
substitute for a conscience, a sense of prudence. Lilith's Lispings had
to be posted that night, or there would be no cheque at the end of the
week. And Lilith had only achieved six poor lisps.
"Can't be done," she said, "simply can't. Unless you can help me out
with Lilith, Jimmy."
Lord Colavon's tastes were sporting and dramatic, but he was not
altogether ignorant of our current literature. Thanks to an intimacy of
some years with Beth Appleby, he knew all about Lilith's lispings and
had often suggested valuable ideas. He did not fail now.
"What about the Pallas Athene?" he said. "Absolutely the latest thing.
Triumph of British engineering. Revelation of speed possibility of road
travel. See company's catalogue, free on application."
"'Lilith lisps,'" Beth wrote rapidly, "'that the _dernier cri_ in motor
luxury is the----' what did you call it, Jimmy?"
"Pallas Athene. Sports model."
Beth wrote down Pallas Athene and then went on:
"'The upholstery is of delicately tinted Russia leather, equally suited
to the light fabric of a summer frock and the rich glow of winter
furs.'"
"Hold on," said Jimmy. "There's no use misleading the good old public.
It's an 8-cylinder sports model, not a bus for going out to dinner in
at night."
"What I've got to do," said Beth, "is to write something that'll
thrill my readers. Lilith doesn't get into motor garages, and isn't
read by mechanics. She lisps in the chaste parlours of the ladies of
the provincial middle classes. What they like to hear about is the
upholstery. They don't care a rap about cylinders."
"Oh, well, say what you jolly well like about the car, but it will be
awkward for me if one of my aunts, or good old Uncle Evie, who might
almost as well be an aunt, went and bought the car expecting it to be
the sort of gentle family pet which purrs when stroked."
"I suppose," said Beth, writing fast, "that you will have no objection
to my saying that you were seen getting out of the car outside a club
in St. James's?"
"None in the world," said Jimmy. "You can say any mortal thing you like
about me, Beth, so long as you get through with that beastly writing of
yours and come out for a spin."
"I've got you down already, along with Mary and Sir Evelyn and some
bishop or other, as a patron of Aunt Agatha's pageant."
"I say, is that the thing Uncle Evie is so keen on? I'd a letter from
him the other day, asking me if I knew of a lugger which could be hired
by the week or bought cheap."
"Good," said Beth. "I'll make a paragraph about that. 'Apropos of the
Hailey Compton Pageant, Lilith lisps that the harbours of England are
being searched for a genuine eighteenth century lugger. Lord Colavon,
who, besides being a keen motorist, is a distinguished yachtsman----'"
"But, I say, what's the old pageant about? That's what I want to know,
and being a patron I think I've a right to ask."
"Smuggling," said Beth. "But for goodness' sake don't interrupt. If I'm
to get these lispings done at all I simply must stick at it."
"I don't believe Uncle Evie is going to smuggle. He's not sportsman
enough."
Mary Lambert, fully dressed for the motor run, slipped into the room in
time to hear Jimmy's defence of his uncle's character.
"If he won't," she said, "I wish somebody else would. The price of silk
stockings is scandalous, and unless something is done about it poor
girls like me won't be able to live at all. It seems to me, Jimmy, that
it's your plain duty to do a little smuggling in the interests of the
profession. Other people may be able to get on without silk. We can't.
It's a business necessity."
Jimmy sat silent for a minute or two, meditating on Mary's proposal.
Then he suddenly addressed Beth.
"Nearly finished? For if you're not too breathless to listen I've got
a scheme to propose."
"Give me one more lisp," said Beth, "and I'm yours for a thousand miles
in the Russia leather Pallas Athene, all meals _en route_ provided
free."
"What I was just going to suggest," said Jimmy, "is that we should run
down and dine with Uncle Evie, just to find out about this smuggling
stunt of his."
"I should be terrified out of my life," said Mary. "I'm not accustomed
to Cabinet Ministers, or for the matter of that to titled aristocrats,
except you, Jimmy, and nobody would ever take you for an earl."
"You needn't be the least bit nervous," said Jimmy. "Uncle Evie is a
bit boring at times, but he wouldn't frighten a ten-year-old orphan.
We'll send him a wire to say we're coming."
"Jimmy," said Beth, "you're priceless! That's another lisp. Absolutely
a topper. 'I had the good fortune to be present a few evenings ago at
an informal little _al fresco_ dinner given by Sir Evelyn Dent in his
fascinating thirteenth century moated grange----'"
"There's no moat," said Jimmy, "and it's a Manor House."
"What does that matter?" said Beth. "It's old, I suppose. People like
your uncle always live in old houses."
"It's old, all right," said Jimmy.
"Then moated grange is the proper thing to call it when writing the
Lispings of Lilith, but if you really prefer it I don't mind calling it
an historic pile. 'Sir Evelyn, a dignified and gracious----' What's the
masculine of 'châtelaine,' Jimmy?"
"'Château,' I should think," said Jimmy, "but don't call poor old Uncle
Evie that. He'd hate it."
"'Sir Evelyn,'" said Beth, writing as she spoke, "'who between
ourselves----' I mean to say '_entre nous_ is something of a _grand
seigneur_.'"
"I know I'll be petrified with terror," said Mary. "A _grand seigneur_
in a moated grange."
"'Among the guests,'" Beth went on, "'was the Earl of Colavon, who was
wearing the famous diamond studs which have been in the family since
Henry VIII gave them to Anne Boleyn, who was, as everybody knows, one
of the ancestors of the Dents,'"
"Hang it all, Beth," said Jimmy, "I don't mind your making a fool of
me in any ordinary way, but a fellow must draw the line somewhere. Why
can't you say that Uncle Evie wore the diamond studs?"
"I'm putting him down for the Garter Ribbon," said Beth, "so you must
have the diamond studs. Though I don't mind making them pearl if you'd
rather. You simply must give the public what it wants if you go in for
literature at all."
"Well, hurry up," said Jimmy. "It's all of 180 miles down to Uncle
Evie's moated grange and I shall have to push the sports model along a
bit if we're to get there for the _al fresco_ dinner."
"Five minutes more and I've finished," said Beth. "'The conversation
after dinner turned on---- Now what do you think, belovedest? Politics?
Wrong. Science? Wrong. Guess again. Well, if you won't, let us whisper:
silk stockings. But you'd have guessed that, wouldn't you? if I'd
mentioned that Miss Mary Lambert was one of the party.'"
"I won't have it," said Mary. "As if I'd dare to talk about silk
stockings to a _grand seigneur_. Tell her not to, Jimmy."
"Not much use my telling Beth anything. Besides, we are going to talk
about silk stockings, aren't we? I mean to say, that's the general idea
of the party--smuggling and so forth."
"Thank Heaven, I've finished," said Beth. "I'll just run and change
my frock, and then we'll see what the Pallas Athene can do along the
roads."
"If anybody talks about silk stockings," said Mary when Beth had left
the room, "it'll have to be you, Jimmy. I simply daren't to a man like
your uncle."
"But that's what we're going to see Uncle Evie about. What I mean to
say is this: we want to get all the particulars about this smuggling
stunt of his, whether there's any chance of fitting in a little of the
real thing. It all depends, you know. But if we could manage to get in
a few dozen pairs of silk stockings under cover of the pageant it'd be
all to the good for you and Beth, wouldn't it?"
"Jimmy," said Mary, "you're an angel!"
"I don't promise anything. It all depends on how Uncle Evie's working
the thing. If he leaves the lugger part of the show in my hands----
Didn't Beth say there was a bishop in it? You can do pretty nearly
anything if you're holding hands with a bishop. Nobody ever suspects
you. Besides, he might be a sportsman himself--the bishop, I mean. Some
are, I'm told. Anyhow, I don't suppose he'd have any objection to a
case of champagne. If he didn't care to drink it himself he could give
it away to poor parsons in the diocese."