“Do you know, Butterfield,” Bassishaw said, “I don’t know how you get
along--that is--get along, you know--as you do.”
The remark didn’t seem particularly illuminating, but he had been silent
for ten minutes, and this appeared to be the result of his cogitation.
“No?” I said encouragingly.
“Well, you know what I mean,” he replied. “I mean how you manage--in the
way you do, you know; never to--you’ve never--hang it, Butterfield, why
don’t you get married?”
“Oh!” I answered, “I see. Of course. I didn’t quite catch the idea at
first. Of course. Why don’t I get married.”
“Yes,” he replied, much relieved. “You--you should, you know. It’s the
finest thing in the world--being engaged, that is. You’ve no idea,
really, Butterfield.”
He seemed quite eager about it. I put my feet comfortably on the fender,
and waited for him to expand. He kept his eyes on the fire.
“You know,” he went on slowly, “you’ll feel awfully lonely and all
that--soon, that is--when Caroline goes, I mean.”
Matchmaking is never a man’s line; he draws back at the very intimate
point he should press home. Arthur did his best. Mrs. Loring had
probably been talking to him.
“I shall miss her very much,” I replied, “very much indeed; but to whom
do you propose to marry me?”
He seemed rather abashed, and a trifle impatient.
“Don’t be an ass,” he said.
I could not be certain, owing to the firelight, that he blushed, but I
chanced it. I didn’t object to these palpable attempts to marry me to
Millicent Dixon; but it was disparaging to my intelligence that I should
be supposed not to notice them. Anyway, the male element was a new
feature in the alliance.
“And do you think that she and I would be a well-matched pair?” I asked.
He professed a hypocritical ignorance as to whom I meant. I laughed.
“Mrs. Loring,” I answered, “can give you points, Arthur. You would
apparently marry me on general principles. She particularises.”
We were waiting for Caroline and Millicent. Millicent and Bassishaw were
dining with us that evening, and Bassishaw had lately, I knew, been a
good deal perturbed on my account. More than once he had timidly
suggested that a woman’s hand in a place made all the difference, you
know, and I had caught him glancing round my rooms with something of a
disparaging valuation of their contents when he should take Caroline
away. His friendly concern, in itself, was deserving of my
gratitude--but with this qualification, that I don’t believe he was
above suspecting that I should take to drink in the imminent solitude of
my bereft apartments.
I was extracting from him the fervent declaration that I couldn’t
imagine how splendid It--being engaged--made you feel, and that to know
that there was One upon whom et-cetera et-cetera For Ever, when
Millicent and Caroline entered. We rose to greet them.
“How do you do, Millicent?” I said. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Heaven!” she replied, “let me come near the fire. I’m as cold as a
seminary breakfast. How do you do, Arthur? What a blessed blaze! Don’t
go away, Arthur.”
Bassishaw had gone over to the table, where Caroline was making the last
unnecessary arrangements, and was having his flower pinned on.
“Oh! his circulation’s all right,” I remarked. “We were once like that,”
and Millicent, looking over her shoulder, laughed at me, and said:
“The dear infants!”
Dinner was served, and we took our places. I faced Caroline, while
Millicent, who was still chilly, and didn’t mind the fire at her back,
looked over the flowers at Bassishaw; an arrangement as can be
diagrammatically proved, offering facilities for between-deck pressing
of feet on a diagonal plan, and which appeared to suit my young sister
admirably. I gave her an amused glance, which Millicent intercepted, and
Carrie tried, unsuccessfully, to look as if she hadn’t done it.
“Never mind him, Carrie,” Millicent said reassuringly. “He’s an envious
old man, who’s wasted his youth, and he’s getting cynical. His failing
years won’t permit him to do such things himself, and his conscience
begins to hurt him.”
This was the woman without whom, in Bassishaw’s opinion, my abode fell
short of completeness.
“My failing years, Miss Dixon,” I returned, “bring with them a certain
charity; nevertheless, allow me to point out your reason for condoning
such practices.”
“Which is----?” she queried.
“That you are quite capable of doing the same thing yourself.”
She laughed, and Bassishaw looked puzzled.
“Oh, I’m not tottering to my fall yet,” she retorted. “I have all sorts
of little surprises in my blood.”
“You forbid reply, Miss Dixon,” I answered. “You take refuge in a
position where man can only maintain a respectful and incredulous
silence. A woman’s years----”
“----are----?” she challenged.
“----and an income-tax return----”
“I am beneath your roof, Mr. Butterfield,” she replied, with the dignity
of St. James’s comedy.
Caroline evidently disapproved strongly. She caught my eye.
“I don’t think you’re a bit nice this evening, Rollo,” she said. “If I
were Millicent”--she straightened her back--“I wouldn’t dine with you.
Don’t take any notice of him, Millie dear.”
“Perhaps,” I replied, “the disparity in years is too great. Think so,
Bassishaw?”
I looked round the flowers at him. He seemed rather embarrassed, and
said nothing. I filled Millicent’s glass, and turned to her.
“What do you think Bassishaw was saying to me just before you came in?”