All right, damn it, no! I don’t want to hector and lay down the law. You
carry on in your own way, my child, and don’t pay any attention to me. I
quite see what you say about taking things for granted—so we’ll lay it
down quite clearly for future guidance that, although I am always right,
I must never be so ex officio and because I am a man and a husband. No
doubt it is irritating. I hadn’t quite looked at it from that point of
view, but possibly there is something in it. Signed Jacko, the
almost-human Ape.
Making a strenuous effort to adopt this feminine viewpoint, I am
beginning to wonder whether my neighbour goes quite the right way to
assert his position as head of the household. I fancy he must have read
somewhere that women like to be treated rough and feel the tight hand on
the rein and that sort of thing. Unfortunately, nature did not design
him for a sheik part, having made him small, dry, and a little bald on
top.
We were just starting off to dine with Lambert the other night, and were
waiting in the hall for a taxi, when Mrs. H. came in, rather flurried
and very wet. She was hanging up her waterproof, when Harrison came
charging out on the landing and called down:
“Is that you, Margaret? Do you know what time it is?”
“I’m sorry—I won’t be a moment.”
“Where on earth have you been?”
“That’s a secret” (in the tone of voice of someone who wants to have the
secret teased out of her. She was laughing to herself, and had a fattish
parcel tucked under her arm).
“Oh! I suppose it’s all the same to you if the dinner’s uneatable.”
Evidently no interest was to be taken in the “secret.” The next effort
was along the lines of cheerful common sense.
“Why didn’t you begin without me?”
“I don’t choose to. This is my home—or supposed to be—not a hotel” (in
a tone of peevish protest).
She had gone past us up to the first-floor landing, and, like the
Wedding-Guest, we could not choose but hear.
“I’m sorry, dear. I was getting something for to-morrow.”
“That’s no excuse. You’ve been chattering to some of your office friends
in some tea-shop or other and forgetting all about what you were
supposed to be doing. No, I don’t want any dinner now.”
“Oh, very well.”
He came running downstairs then and saw us. I think it gave him a shock,
because he pulled himself up and smiled and said something vague. Then
he turned and called up the stairs again:
“All right, my dear, I’ll be up in a minute.” His eyes were unhappy.
There’s something wrong in this house—something more than a little
misunderstanding about dinner time. I shouldn’t wonder if she gives this
man a devil of a time—probably without meaning it, that’s the rub.
Lathom, who is at the chivalrous age, was all for youth and beauty, of
course, and wanted to hop out and sling the old boy into his own
umbrella-stand, but I told him not to be an infernal ass. Why shouldn’t
the woman come home in time for meals? It’s not much to do, and I don’t
believe she has any other job in life except to sit reading novels in
the front window all day. I know, I’ve seen her at it. All the same, I
do wish we had a separate staircase. It’s a bore to have people fighting
out their matrimonial quarrels on one’s front doorstep. I’m a man of
peace, I am.
I heard afterwards (per Lathom, via Miss Milsom) that the mysterious
parcel was a present for Harrison, the next day being their
wedding-anniversary. The row in the hall rather spoilt the sentiment of
the occasion, I gather. Lathom says the man is a brute. But I don’t
altogether see that. He couldn’t be supposed to know, and anyhow, what
is the good of giving a person a lavish display of affection with one
hand and rubbing pepper into his eyes with the other?
Oh, Bungie, it’s the silly little things of life that I’m afraid of.
Don’t they frighten you, too, competent as you are?
Yours always,
JACK