Coffee was served. Finally, liqueurs were offered. A moment later the
servants withdrew silently, leaving the quartette to their cups.
The six shaded candles threw down upon the table a gentle light. This
the silver and rosewood gave back vastly enriched. From a decanter
before the host a fine old port rendered a comfortable glow. An onyx
ash-tray and a match-box flashed by each painted plate; at either end of
the table was a gold box of cigarettes; between the two men lay cigars;
fruit was within reach; the board was not crowded, yet seemed to be
pleasantly full; upon the sideboard were remaining champagne, water,
coffee and the little group of liqueurs.
The dinner had been perfect, the service superb; but then you had come
to expect that at 20 Park Place. It was the Willoughbys’ fault; from the
day they were married they had always spoiled their guests.
Herrick looked across the violets at Eleanor Cloke.
“Kitchen, cellar, table and service,” he said, “all one long last word.
Nell, how do they do it?”
Miss Cloke shrugged her white shoulders.
“You can search me,” she said hopelessly. “But don’t dwell on it, or I
shall burst into idle tears.”
Madge Willoughby set down her cup.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Same as the Queen of Sheba,” said Herrick hastily. “You know. She
thought she knew how to live; but when she saw Solomon’s idea of
comfort——”
“Tell her,” said Eleanor Cloke.
“I am,” said Herrick. “Give me a chance. . . . Well, what really broke
the Queen’s heart was the poisonous reflection that for the rest of her
life the King of Sheba would be saying, ‘My dear, why can’t we have
so-and-so? _Solomon has._’”
His hostess leaned forward, with parted lips.
“D’you mean that you’re . . .”
David Herrick swallowed.
“Don’t rush him,” said Crispin Willoughby. “The roof of his mouth’s
dry.” He turned to his faltering guest. “Moisten the lips, old bean, and
let it come with the breath.”
“I mean,” said Herrick desperately, “that we’re—we’re thinkin’ of
joinin’ up.”
His hostess sighed contentedly.
“At last,” she said.
Crispin turned to Miss Cloke.
“My dear,” he said, “be careful. Have you ever seen him unshaved?”
“That,” said Eleanor, “is a pleasure to come.”
“Pleasure?” said Crispin. “Oh, she has got it bad. Never mind. Was you
took ill gradual like, or was it all of a sudding that you came over
queer?”
“To be perfectly frank,” said Eleanor, “I’ve always liked the look of
him.”
Willoughby put up an eye-glass and inspected his prey.
“There is something rather winsome about that sheepish grin of his,
isn’t there? D’you see what I mean, Madge? That
David’s-my-name-but-call-me-Boris-look.”
“What a shame,” said his wife. “David, if I were Nell, I should be very
proud.”
“I am,” said Eleanor. “When he seized me——”
“Oh, you story!” said David. “I never——”
“Shut your face,” said Crispin. “Go on, Nell. When he seized you . . .”
“I never seized her,” cried Herrick. “I—I hadn’t time. Your butler——”
“You see,” said Eleanor, “we arrived together to-night. I was just going
to ring when he said that I looked like a fairy-tale. Well, that was all
right, so, instead of ringing, I gave him a baby stare.”
“Oh, the hussy!” raved Herrick. “The——”
“Be quiet,” shrieked his host and hostess.
“The next minute,” said Eleanor coolly, “it was all over. And, when I
came to, the door was open and I was in his arms.”
“Oh, she’s slurred it,” said Crispin. “She’s slurred it. What was all
over?”
Eleanor smiled bewitchingly.
“You must ask your butler,” she said.
Crispin lifted his glass and looked at his wife.
“My sweet,” he said, “your very good health. There’s no one like you in
all the blinkin’ world.” His guests cried their approval, and the
tenderest look stole into Madge Willoughby’s eyes. He drank, smiled and
set down his glass. Then he turned to Miss Cloke. “Nell,” he said,
“you’re a darling. I’ld rather have you on my right than any woman I
know. Yet, sweet as you are, you’re a fortunate child. David may be
peculiar, but he’ll never let you down.”
“What d’you mean—‘peculiar’?” said Herrick.
“That,” said Eleanor, “is what I’m burning to know.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. Be careful of him when he’s in beer,
and if ever he says he’s a life-belt and tries to put himself on, don’t
argue, but send for the police.”
“They say,” said Eleanor, gurgling, “that marriage tends to shatter all
sorts of illusions.”
Crispin laid a hand upon his heart.
“My dear,” he declared, “I’m sure that yours will but substantiate your
dreams.”
“With which,” said Madge tremulously, “we grey-beards look towards you.”
Solemnly she and her husband toasted their guests.
Herrick cleared his throat.
“Nell,” he said, “I give you the verb ‘to love.’ _Je t’aime, tu m’aimes,
il s’aime, mais nous aimons Madge tous les trois._”
He raised his glass.
“‘_Il s’aime_’?” said Crispin. “Put down that port.”
“We’d better include him,” said Eleanor. “Besides, he’s—he’s rather a
dear.”
She blew her host a kiss, and the toast was honoured.
“A little more of this,” said Mrs. Willoughby, “and I shall break down.”
“I—I’m sure I should have seized her,” said Crispin brokenly.
“Well, now,” said Herrick, squeezing the end of a cigar, “what’s the
first thing to do?”
“Broadcast your folly,” said Crispin. “Put a notice in _The Times_,
announcing her unaccountable determination to become your wife. If I
were you I should kill two birds with one rock and add that you won’t be
responsible for her debts. You never know.”
“The next thing,” said Madge, “is to decide roughly upon a date. Let’s
see. This is March. What about some time in May?”
“That’s all right for me,” said Eleanor. “As at present arranged, I get
back from Nice——”
“My dear good child,” said her hostess, “you can wash Nice out. You’ve
got to get your _trousseau_.”
The lovers regarded one another.
“Can’t she get that at Nice?” said David. “I mean, I’d thought I’ld go
too. Give the east winds a miss an’ play a little pat-ball an’——”
“Nice?” said Crispin. “You won’t have time to get to Worthing and back.
You haven’t the remotest idea of what you’re up against. As a rule, a
full-dress wedding takes over two months to produce, and that means
going full blast the whole of the time.”
Herrick shifted uneasily.
“Must—er—must it be full-dress?” he ventured. “I mean——”
A shriek from Madge and Eleanor cut short the protest.
“But, of _course_,” cried his hostess. “You must be married at St.
Margaret’s, with six bridesmaids.”
“That’s right,” said Crispin. “And flowers on the organ. I’ll order the
confetti. The best way is to get it by the hundredweight.”
Herrick tugged his moustache.
“You’re sure,” he said humbly, “you’re sure, Nell, you wouldn’t like
quite a quiet show? You know. Sort of hidin’ our light under a bushel.”
“Positive, darling,” said Eleanor. “I want to splurge. Besides, we can
go to Nice any old time. Can we have a guard of honour?”
“There you are,” said Crispin. “They’re squabbling already.”
“Look here,” said Madge, laughing. “Within limits of reason each of
you’s anxious to do what the other wants. Am I right?”
“My heart’s desire,” said David piously.
“Liar,” said Eleanor. “Go on, Madge.”
“Very well. I’ve got a plan. Certain things, like her _trousseau_, are
left to the woman, and certain other things are always left to the man.
Now, that’s a bad arrangement, because the woman gets what she wants and
the man pleases himself.”
“Why’s that bad?” said Eleanor suspiciously.
“Because, if they’re to be happy, the woman should get what he wants,
while the man should please her.”
Finger to exquisite lip, Eleanor regarded her swain.
“Yes, I’ve got that,” said the latter. “It’s rather subtle, but——”
“It’s love,” said Madge. “That’s all. If Nell gets a frock and you don’t
like it, she’ll loathe the sight of it.”
“That’s right,” said Crispin. “And if you get a pair of boots and they
frighten her, the very thought of the swine’ll make your gorge rise.”
“Therefore,” continued Madge, bubbling, “the usual practice must be
reversed. The things that a man does will become Nell’s business, while
David must choose and manage what’s usually left to the girl.”
There was a pregnant silence.