CHAPTER V

"That's torn it," I said to Celia.

"I suppose it has," she said sadly.

"The world will never hear the Joke now. It's had it wrong, but still

it's had it, and I can't repeat it."

Celia began to smile.

"It's sickening," she said; "but it's really rather funny, you know."

And then she had another brilliant inspiration.

"In fact you might write an article about it."

And, as you see, I have.

EPILOGUE

Having read thus far, Celia says, "But you still haven't got the Joke

in."

Oh, well, here goes.

_Extract from letter_: "We came back to the line to-day to find that the

cat had kittened. However, as all the rats seem to have rottened we are

much as we were."

"Rottened" was misprinted "rattened," which seems to me to spoil the

Joke....

Yet I must confess that there are times now when I feel that perhaps

after all I may have overrated it....

But it was a pleasant joke in its day.

THE LAST POT

Let others hymn the weariness and pain

(Or, if they will, the glory and the glamour)

Of holding fast, from Flanders to Lorraine,

The thin brown line at which the Germans hammer;

My Muse, a more domesticated maid,

Aspires to sing a song of Marmalade.

O Marmalade!--I do not mean the sort,

Sweet marrow-pulp, for babes and maidens fitter,

But that wherein the golden fishes sport

On oranges seas (with just a dash of bitter),

Not falsely coy, but eager to parade

Their Southern birth--in short, O Marmalade!

Much have I sacrificed: my happy home,

My faith in experts' figures, half my money,

The fortnight that I meant to spend in Rome,

My weekly effort to be fairly funny;

But these are trifles, light as air when weighed

Against this other--Breakfast Marmalade.

Fair was the porridge in the days of peace,

And still more fair the cream and sugar taken;

Plump were the twin poached eggs, yet not obese,

Upon their thrones of toast, and crisp the bacon--

I face their loss undaunted, unafraid,

If only I may keep my Marmalade.

An evening press without Callisthenes;

A tables Staff; an immobile spaghetti;

A Shaw with whom the Common Man agrees;

A Zambra searching vainly for Negretti;

When spades are trumps, a hand without a spade--

So is my breakfast lacking Marmalade.

O Northcliffe (Lord)! O Keiller! O Dundee!

O Crosse and Blackwell, Limited! O Seville!

O orange groves along the Middle Sea!

(O Jaffa, for example) O the devil--

Let Beef and Butter, Rolls and Rabbits fade,

But give me back my love, my Marmalade.

THE STORY THAT WENT WEST

"Why don't you write a war story?" said Celia one autumn day when that

sort of story was popular.

"Because everybody else does," I said. "I forget how many bayonets we

have on the Western Front, but there must be at least twice as many

fountain-pens."

"It needn't be about the Western Front."

"Unfortunately that's the only front I know anything about."

"I thought writers used their imagination sometimes," said Celia to

anybody who might happen to be listening.

"Oh, well, if you put it like that," I said, "I suppose I must."

So I settled down to a story about the Salonica Front.

The scene of my story was laid in an old clay hut amid the wattles.

"What are wattles?" asked Celia, when I told her the good news.

"Local colour," I explained. "They grow in Bulgaria."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure that these ones did; I don't know about any others."

Of course more local colour was wanted than a mere wattle or two. It was

necessary therefore for my Bulgarians always to go about in _comitadjis_.

Celia thought that these were a kind of native trouser laced at the knee.

She may be right. My own impression is that they are a species of

platoon. Anyhow the Bulgars always went about in them.

There was a fierce fight which raged round the old clay hut in the

wattles. The Greeks shouted "[Greek: Tuptô tuptomai]" The Serbs, for

reasons into which I need not enter, were inarticulate with rage.

With the French and British I had, of course, no difficulty, and the

Bulgars (fortunately) were content with hoarse guttural noises. It was a

fierce fight while it lasted, and I was sorry when it was over, because

for the first time I began to feel at home with my story. I need not say

that many a Bulgar had licked the wattles before I had finished.

Unfortunately something else happened before I had finished.

"What do you think?" cried Celia, bursting into my room one evening, just

when I was wondering whether my readers would expect to know more of the

heroine's native costume than that it was "simple yet becoming."

"Wait a moment," I said.

"It's too good to wait," said Celia excitedly. "Bulgaria has

surrendered."

Celia may be a good patriot, but she lacks the artistic temperament.

"Oh, has she?" I said bitterly. "Then she's jolly well spoilt my story."

"The one about the wattles?"

"Yes."

"Tut-tuttles," said Celia frivolously.

Well, I wasn't going to waste my wattles. With great presence of mind I

decided to transfer my story to the Palestine Front.

Under a hard blue sky of intense brilliance the old clay hut stood among

the wattles. A _wadi_ ran by the side of it; not a small Turkish dog, as

Celia thought, but--well, everybody knows what a _wadi_ is. The battle

went on much as before, except that the Turks were naturally more

outspoken than the Bulgars, calling freely upon Allah at the beginning of

the fight, and reconciling themselves to the end of it with "Kismet."

I also turned some of the horses into camels, and (for the sake of the

Indian troops) several pairs of puttees into _chupaties_. It was a good

story while it lasted.

However, nobody seems to care about art nowadays.

"What do you think?" cried Celia, bursting into my room.

I held up a delaying hand. I had suddenly thought of the word "adobe." My

story seemed to need it somewhere. If possible, among the wattles.

"But listen!" She read out the headline: "'Turkey Surrenders at

Discretion.'"

"Discretion!" I said indignantly. "I have never heard of anything so

tactless. And it isn't as though I could even move on to Mesopotamia."

"Couldn't there be a little local rising in Persia?" suggested Celia.

"I doubt it, I doubt it," I said thoughtfully. "You can't do much with

just wattles and a little sherbet--I mean you can't expect the public to

be interested in Persia at such a moment as this. No, we shall have to

step westward. We must see what we can do with the Italian Front."

But I had very little hope. A curious foreboding of evil came over me as

I placed those wattles tenderly along the west bank of the Piave. The old

clay hut still stood proudly amid them; the Bersaglieri advanced

impetuously with cries of "_En avant_!"--no, that's wrong--with cries

of--well, anyhow they advanced.

They advanced....

And as I shut my eyes I seemed to see--no, not that old clay hut amid the

wattles, nor yet the adobe edifice on the heights of Asiago, but Celia

coming into the library with another paper announcing that yet another

country was deaf to the call of art.

* * * * *

If anybody wants a really good story about the Peninsular War and will

drop me a line, I shall be glad to enter into negotiations with him. The

scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Badajoz, and the chief interest

centres round an old--yes, you have guessed it--an old clay hut in the

wattles.

THE TWO VISITS,

1888, 1919

("_Dispersal Areas, 10a, 10b, 10c--Crystal Palace_.")

It was, I think, in '88

That Luck or Providence or Fate

Assumed the more material state

Of Aunt (or Great-Aunt) Alice,

And took (the weather being fine,

And Bill, the eldest, only nine)

Three of us by the Brighton line

To see the Crystal Palace.

Observe us, then, an eager four

Advancing on the Western Door,

Or possibly the Northern, or--

Well, anyhow, advancing;

Aunt Alice bending from the hips,

And Bill in little runs and trips,

And John with frequent hops and skips,

While I was fairly dancing.

Aunt Alice pays; the turnstile clicks,

And with the happy crowds we mix

To gaze upon--well, I was six,

Say, getting on for seven;

And, looking back on it to-day,

The memories have passed away--

I find that I can only say

(Roughly) to gaze on heaven.

Heaven it was which came to pass

Within those magic walls of glass

(Though William, like a silly ass,

Had lost my bag of bull's-eyes).

The wonders of that wonder-hall!

The--all the things I can't recall,

And, dominating over all,

The statues, more than full-size.

Adam and Niobe were there,

Disraeli much the worse for wear,

Samson before he'd cut his hair,

Lord Byron and Apollo;

A female group surrounded by

A camel (though I don't know why)--

And all of them were ten feet high

And all, I think, were hollow.

These gods looked down on us and smiled

To see how utterly a child

By simple things may be beguiled

To happiness and laughter;

It warmed their kindly hearts to see

The joy of Bill and John and me

From ten to lunch, from lunch to tea,

From tea to six or after.

That evening, when the day was dead,

They tucked a babe of six in bed,

Arranged the pillows for his head,

And saw the lights were shaded;

Too sleepy for the Good-night kiss

His only conscious thought was this:

"No man shall ever taste the bliss

That I this blessed day did."

When one is six one cannot tell;

And John, who at the Palace fell

A victim to the Blondin Belle,

Is wedded to another;

And I, my intimates allow,

Have lost the taste for bull's-eyes now,

And baldness decorates the brow

Of Bill, our elder brother.

Well, more than thirty years have passed...

But all the same on Thursday last

My heart was beating just as fast

Within that Hall of Wonder;

My bliss was every bit as great

As what it was in '88--

Impossible to look sedate

Or keep my feelings under.

The gods of old still gazed upon

The scene where, thirty years agone,

The lines of Bill and me and John

Were cast in pleasant places;

And "Friends," I murmured, "what's the odds

If you are rather battered gods?

This is no time for Ichabods

And _eheu_--er--_fugaces_."

Ah, no; I did not mourn the years'

Fell work upon those poor old dears,

Nor Pitt nor Venus drew my tears

And set me slowly sobbing;

I hailed them with a happy laugh

And slapped old Samson on the calf,

And asked a member of the staff

For "Officers Demobbing."

That evening, being then dispersed

I swore (as I had sworn it first

When three of us went on the burst

With Aunt, or Great-Aunt, Alice),

"Although one finds, as man or boy,

A thousand pleasures to enjoy,

For happiness without alloy

Give me the Crystal Palace!"

V. HOME NOTES

THE WAY DOWN

Sydney Smith, or Napoleon or Marcus Aurelius (somebody about that time)

said that after ten days any letter would answer itself. You see what he

meant. Left to itself your invitation from the Duchess to lunch next

Tuesday is no longer a matter to worry about by Wednesday morning. You

were either there or not there; it is unnecessary to write now and say

that a previous invitation from the Prime Minister--and so on. It was

Napoleon's idea (or Dr. Johnson's or Mark Antony's--one of that circle)

that all correspondence can be treated in this manner.

I have followed these early Masters (or whichever one it was) to the best

of my ability. At any given moment in the last few years there have been

ten letters that I absolutely _must_ write, thirty which I _ought_ to

write, and fifty which any other person in my position _would_ have

written. Probably I have written two. After all, when your profession is

writing, you have some excuse for demanding a change of occupation in

your leisure hours. No doubt if I were a coal-heaver by day, my wife

would see to the fire after dinner while I wrote letters. As it is, she

does the correspondence, while I gaze into the fire and think about

things.

You will say, no doubt, that this was all very well before the War, but

that in the Army a little writing would be a pleasant change after the

day's duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If, years ago, I had ever

conceived a glorious future in which my autograph might be of value to

the more promiscuous collectors, that conception has now been shattered.

Four years in the Army has absolutely spoilt the market. Even were I

revered in the year 2000 A.D. as Shakespeare is revered now, my

half-million autographs, scattered so lavishly on charge-sheets, passes,

chits, requisitions, indents and applications would keep the price at a

dead level of about ten a penny. No, I have had enough of writing in the

Army and I never want to sign my own name again. "Yours sincerely,

Herbert Asquith," "Faithfully yours, J. Jellicoe"--these by all means;

but not my own.

However, I wrote a letter in the third year of the war; it was to the

bank. It informed the Manager that I had arrived in London from France

and should be troubling them again shortly, London being to all

appearances an expensive place. It also called attention to my new

address--a small furnished flat in which Celia and I could just turn

round if we did it separately. When it was written, then came the

question of posting it. I was all for waiting till the next morning, but

Celia explained that there was actually a letterbox on our own floor,

twenty yards down the passage. I took the letter along and dropped it

into the slit.

Then a wonderful thing happened. It went

_Flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--

flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--FLOP._

I listened intently, hoping for more ... but that was all. Deeply

disappointed that it was over, but absolutely thrilled with my discovery,

I hurried back to Celia.

"Any letters you want posted?" I said in an off-hand way.

"No, thank you," she said.

"Have you written any while we've been here?"

"I don't think I've had anything to write."

"I think," I said reproachfully, "it's quite time you wrote to your--your

bank or your mother or somebody."

She looked at me and seemed to be struggling for words.

"I know exactly what you're going to say," I said, "but don't say it;

write a little letter instead."

"Well, as a matter of fact I _must_ just write a note to the laundress."

"To the laundress," I said. "Of course, just a note."

When it was written I insisted on her coming with me to post it. With

great generosity I allowed her to place it in the slit. A delightful

thing happened. It went _Flipperty--flipperty--flipperty

flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty

flipperty--flipperty--FLOP_.

Right down to the letter-box in the hall. Two flipperties a floor. (A

simple calculation shows that we are perched on the fifth floor. I am

glad now that we live so high. It must be very dull to be on the fourth

floor with only eight flipperties, unbearable to be on the first with

only two.)

"_O-oh!_ How _fas_-cinating!" said Celia.

"Now don't you think you ought to write to your mother?"

"Oh, I _must_."

She wrote. We posted it. It went.

_Flipperty--flipperty_--However, you know all about that now.

Since this great discovery of mine, life has been a more

pleasurable business. We feel now that there are romantic

possibilities about Letters setting forth on their journey from our

floor. To start life with so many flipperties might lead to anything.

Each time that we send a letter off we listen in a tremble of excitement

for the final FLOP, and when it comes I think we both feel vaguely that

we are still waiting for something. We are waiting to hear some magic

letter go _flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty_ ... and

behold! there is no FLOP ... and still it goes

on--_flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty_--growing fainter in the

distance ... until it arrives at some wonderland of its own. One day it

must happen so. For we cannot listen always for that FLOP, and hear it

always; nothing in this world is as inevitable as that. One day we shall

look at each other with awe in our faces and say, "But it's still

flipperting!" and from that time forward the Hill of Campden will be a

place holy and enchanted. Perhaps on Midsummer Eve--

At any rate I am sure that it is the only way in which to post a letter

to Father Christmas.

Well, what I want to say is this: if I have been a bad correspondent in

the past I am a good one now; and Celia, who was always a good one, is a

better one. It takes at least ten letters a day to satisfy us, and we

prefer to catch ten different posts. With the ten in your hand together

there is always a temptation to waste them in one wild rush of

flipperties, all catching each other up. It would be a great moment, but

I do not think we can afford it yet; we must wait until we get more

practised at letter-writing. And even then I am doubtful; for it might be

that, lost in the confusion of that one wild rush, the magic letter would

start on its way--_flipperty--flipperty_--to the never-land, and we

should forever have missed it.

So, friends, acquaintances, yes, and even strangers, I beg you now to

give me another chance. I will answer your letters, how gladly. I still

think that Napoleon (or Canute or the younger Pliny--one of the

pre-Raphaelites) took a perfectly correct view of his correspondence ...

but then _he_ never had a letter-box which went

_Flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty

flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty--flipperty

flipperty--FLOP._

HEAVY WORK

Every now and then doctors slap me about and ask me if I was always as

thin as this.

"As thin as what?" I say with as much dignity as is possible to a man who

has had his shirt taken away from him.

"As thin as this," says the doctor, hooking his stethoscope on to one of

my ribs, and then going round to the other side to see how I am getting

on there.

I am slightly better on the other side, but he runs his pencil up and

down me and produces that pleasing noise which small boys get by dragging

a stick along railings.

I explain that I was always delicately slender, but that latterly my ribs

have been overdoing it.

"You must put on more flesh," he says sternly, running his pencil up and

down them again. (He must have been a great nuisance as a small boy.)

"I will," I say fervently, "I will."

Satisfied by my promise he gives me back my shirt.

But it is not only the doctor who complains; Celia is even more upset by

it. She says tearfully that I remind her of a herring. Unfortunately she

does not like herrings. It is my hope some day to remind her of a turbot

and make her happy. She, too, has my promise that I will put on flesh.

We had a fortnight's leave a little while ago, which seemed to give me a

good opportunity of putting some on. So we retired to a house in the

country where there is a weighing-machine in the bathroom. We felt that

the mere sight of this weighing-machine twice daily would stimulate the

gaps between my ribs. They would realize that they had been brought down

there on business.

The first morning I weighed myself just before stepping into the water.

When I got down to breakfast I told Celia the result.

"You _are_ a herring," she said sadly.

"But think what an opportunity it gives me. If I started the right

weight, the rest of the fortnight would be practically wasted. By the

way, the doctor talks about putting on flesh, but he didn't say how much

he wanted. What do you think would be a nice amount?"

"About another stone," said Celia. "You were just a nice size before the

War."

"All right. Perhaps I had better tell the weighing-machine. This is a

co-operative job; I can't do it all myself."

The next morning I was the same as before, and the next, and the next,

and the next.

"Really," said Celia, pathetically, "we might just as well have gone to a

house where there wasn't a weighing-machine at all. I don't believe it's

trying. Are you sure you stand on it long enough?"

"Long enough for me. It's a bit cold, you know."

"Well, make quite sure to-morrow. I must have you not quite so herringy."

I made quite sure the next morning. I had eight stone and a half on the

weight part, and the-little-thing-you-move-up-and-down was on the "4"

notch, and the bar balanced midway between the top and the bottom. To

have had a crowd in to see would have been quite unnecessary; the whole

machine was shouting eight-stone-eleven as loudly as it could.

"I expect it's got used to you," said Celia when I told her the sad state

of affairs. "It likes eight-stone-eleven people."

"We will give it," I said, "one more chance."

Next morning the weights were as I had left them, and I stepped on

without much hope, expecting that the bar would come slowly up to its

midway position of rest. To my immense delight, however, it never

hesitated but went straight up to the top. At last I had put on flesh!

Very delicately I moved the-thing-you-move-up-and-down to its next notch.

Still the bar stayed at the top. I had put on at least another ounce of

flesh!

I continued to put on more ounces. Still the bar remained up! I was

eight-stone-thirteen.... Good heavens, I was eight-stone-fourteen!

I pushed the-thing-you-move-up-and-down back to the zero position, and

exchanged the half-stone weight for a stone one. Excited but a trifle

cold, for it was a fresh morning, and the upper part of the window was

wide open, I went up from nine stone ounce by ounce....

At nine-stone-twelve I jumped off for a moment and shut the window....

At eleven-stone-eight I had to get off again in order to attend to the

bath, which was in danger of overflowing....

At fifteen-stone-eleven the breakfast gong went....

At nineteen-stone-nine I realized that I had overdone it. However I

decided to know the worst. The worst that the machine could tell me was

twenty-stone-seven. At twenty-stone-seven I left it.

Celia, who had nearly finished breakfast, looked up eagerly as I came in.

"Well?" she said.

"I am sorry I am late," I apologized, "but I have been putting on flesh."

"Have you really gone up?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes." I began mechanically to help myself to porridge, and then stopped.

"No, perhaps not," I said thoughtfully.

"Have you gone up much?"

"Much," I said. "Quite much."

"How much? Quick!"

"Celia," I said sadly, "I am twenty-stone-seven. I may be more; the

weighing-machine gave out then."

"Oh, but, darling, that's much too much."

"Still, it's what we came here for," I pointed out. "No, no bacon,

thanks; a small piece of dry toast."

"I suppose the machine couldn't have made a mistake?"

"It seemed very decided about it. It didn't hesitate at all."

"Just try again after breakfast to make sure."

"Perhaps I'd better try now," I said, getting up, "because if I turned

out to be only twenty-stone-six I might venture on a little porridge

after all. I shan't be long."

I went upstairs. I didn't dare face that weighing-machine in my clothes

after the way in which I had already strained it without them. I took

them off hurriedly and stepped on. To my joy the bar stayed in its

downward position. I took off an ounce ... then another ounce. The bar

remained down....

At eighteen-stone-two I jumped off for a moment in order to shut the

window, which some careless housemaid had opened again....

At twelve-stone-seven I shouted through the door to Celia that I

shouldn't be long, and that I should want the porridge after all....

At four-stone-six I said that I had better have an egg or two as well.

At three ounces I stepped off, feeling rather shaken.

* * * * *

I have not used the weighing-machine since; partly because I do not

believe it is trustworthy, partly because I spent the rest of my leave in

bed with a severe cold. We are now in London again, where I am putting on

flesh. At least the doctor who slapped me about yesterday said that I

must, and I promised him that I would.

THE PATRIOT

This is a true story. Unless you promise to believe me, it is not much

good my going on ... You promise? Very well.

Years ago I bought a pianola. I went into the shop to buy a gramophone

record, and I came out with a pianola--so golden-tongued was the manager.

You would think that one could then retire into private life for a

little, but it is only the beginning. There is the music-stool to be

purchased, the library subscription, the tuner's fee (four visits a year,

if you please), the cabinet for the rolls, the man to oil the pedals,

the--However, one gets out of the shop at last. Nor do I regret my

venture. It is common talk that my pianola was the chief thing about

me which attracted Celia. "I _must_ marry a man with a pianola," she

said ... and there was I ... and here, in fact, we are. My blessings,

then, on the golden tongue of the manager.

Now there is something very charming in a proper modesty about one's

attainments, but it is necessary that the attainments should be generally

recognized first. It was admirable in Stephenson to have said (as I am

sure he did), when they congratulated him on his first steam-engine,

"Tut-tut, it's nothing"; but he could only say this so long as the others

were in a position to offer the congratulations. In order to place you in

that position I must let you know how extraordinarily well I played the

pianola. I brought to my interpretation of different Ops an _élan_, a

_verve_, a _je ne sais quoi_--and several other French words--which were

the astonishment of all who listened to me. But chiefly I was famous for

my playing of one piece: "The Charge of the Uhlans," by Karl Bohm. Others

may have seen Venice by moonlight, or heard the Vicar's daughter recite

"Little Jim," but the favoured few who have been present when Bohm and I

were collaborating are the ones who have really lived. Indeed, even the

coldest professional critic would have spoken of it as "a noteworthy

rendition."

"The Charge of the Uhlans." If you came to see me, you had to hear it. As

arranged for the pianola, it was marked to be played throughout at a

lightning pace and with the loudest pedal on. So one would play it if one

wished to annoy the man in the flat below; but a true musician has, I

take it, a higher aim. I disregarded the "FF.'s" and the other sign-posts

on the way, and gave it my own interpretation. As played by me, "The

Charge of the Uhlans" became a whole battle scene. Indeed, it was

necessary, before I began, that I should turn to my audience and describe

the scene to them--in the manner, but not in the words, of a Queen's Hall

programme:--

"Er--first of all you hear the cavalry galloping past, and then there's a

short hymn before action while they form up, and then comes the charge,

and then there's a slow bit while they--er--pick up the wounded, and then

they trot slowly back again. And if you listen carefully to the last bit

you'll actually hear the horses limping."

Something like that I would say; and it might happen that an insufferable

guest (who never got asked again) would object that the hymn part was

unusual in real warfare.

"They sang it in this piece, anyhow," I would say stiffly, and turn my

back on him and begin.

But the war put a stop to music, as to many other things. For years the

pianola was not played by either of us. We had other things to do. And in

our case, curiously enough, absence from the pianola did not make the

heart grow fonder. On the contrary, we seemed to lose our taste for

music, and when at last we were restored to our pianola, we found that we

had grown out of it.

"It's very ugly," announced Celia.

"We can't help our looks," I said in my grandmother's voice.

"A book-case would be much prettier there."

"But not so tuneful."

"A pianola isn't tuneful if you never play it."

"True," I said.

Celia then became very alluring, and suggested that I might find somebody

who would like to be lent a delightful pianola by somebody whose

delightful wife had her eye on a delightful bookcase.

"I might," I said.

"Somebody," said Celia, "who isn't supplied with music from below."

I found John. He was quite pleased with the idea, and promised to

return the pianola when he got sick of it.

So on Wednesday it went. I was not sorry, because in its silence it was

far from beautiful, and we wanted another book-case badly. But on

Tuesday evening--its last hours with us--I had to confess to a certain

melancholy. It is sad to part with an old and well-tried friend,

particularly when that friend is almost entirely responsible for your

marriage. I looked at the pianola and then I said to Celia, "I must

play it once again."

"Please," said Celia.

"The old masterpiece, I suppose?" I said, as I got it out.

"Do you think you ought to--now? I don't think I want to hear a

charge of the Uhlans--beasts; I want a charge of our own men."

"Art," I said grandly, "knows no frontiers." I suppose this has been

said by several people several times already, but for the moment both

Celia and I thought it was rather clever.

So I placed the roll in the pianola, sat down and began to play....

Ah, the dear old tune....

Dash it all!

"What's happened?" said Celia, breaking a silence which had become

alarming.

"I must have put it in wrong," I said.

I wound the roll off, put it in again, and tried a second time,

pedalling vigorously.

Dead silence....

Hush! A note ... another silence ... and then another note....

I pedalled through to the end. About five notes sounded.

"Celia," I said, "this is wonderful."

It really was wonderful. For the first time in its life my pianola

refused to play "The Charge of the Uhlans." It had played it a hundred

times before the War, but now--no!

We had to have a farewell piece. I put in a waltz, and it played it

perfectly. Then we said good-bye to our pianola, feeling a reverence

for it which we had never felt before.

* * * * *

You don't believe this? Yet you promised you would ... and I still

assure you that it is true. But I admit that the truth is sometimes

hard to believe, and the first six persons to whom I told the story

assured me frankly that I was a liar. If one is to be called a liar,

one may as well make an effort to deserve the name. I made an effort,

therefore, with the seventh person.

"I put in 'The Charge of the Uhlans,'" I said, "and it played 'God

Save the King.'"

Unfortunately he was a very patriotic man, and he believed it. So that is

how the story is now going about. But you who read this know the real

truth of the matter.

A QUESTION OF LIGHT

As soon as Celia had got a cheque-book of her own (and I had explained

the mysteries of "---- & Co." to her), she looked round for a safe

investment of her balance, which amounted to several pounds. My offers,

first of an old stocking and afterwards of mines, mortgages and aerated

breads, were rejected at once.

"I'll leave a little in the bank in case of accidents," she said, "and

the rest must go somewhere absolutely safe and earn me five per cent.

Otherwise they shan't have it."

We did what we could for her; we offered the money to archdeacons and

other men of pronounced probity; and finally we invested it in the

Blanktown Electric Light Company. Blanktown is not its real name, of

course; but I do not like to let out any information which may be of

value to Celia's enemies--the wicked ones who are trying to snatch her

little fortune from her. The world, we feel, is a dangerous place for a

young woman with money.

"Can't I _possibly_ lose it now?" she asked.

"Only in two ways," I said. "Blanktown might disappear in the night, or

the inhabitants might give up using electric light."

It seemed safe enough. At the same time we watched the newspapers

anxiously for details of the latest inventions; and anybody who happened

to mention when dining with us that he was experimenting with a new and

powerful illuminant was handed his hat at once.

You have Blanktown, then, as the depository of Celia's fortune. Now it

comes on the scene in another guise. I made the announcement with some

pride at breakfast yesterday.

"My dear," I said, "I have been asked to deliver a lecture."

"Whatever on?" asked Celia.

"Anything I like. The last person lectured on 'The Minor Satellites of

Jupiter,' and the one who comes after me is doing 'The Architecture of

the Byzantine Period,' so I can take something in between."

"Like 'Frostbites,'" said Celia helpfully. "But I don't quite understand.

Where is it, and why?"

"The Blanktown Literary and Philosophical Society ask me to lecture to

them at Blanktown. The man who was coming is ill."

"But why _you_ particularly?"

"One comes down to me in the end," I said modestly.

"I expect it's because of my electric lights. Do they give you any money

for it?"

"They ask me to name my fee."

"Then say a thousand pounds, and lecture on the need for more electric

light. Fancy if I got six per cent!"

"This is a very sordid conversation," I said. "If I agree to lecture

at all, it will be simply because I feel that I have a message to

deliver ... I will now retire into the library and consider what that

message is to be."

I placed the encyclopaedia handy and sat down at my desk. I had already

grasped the fact that the title of my discourse was the important thing.

In the list of the Society's lectures sent to me there was hardly one

whose title did not impress the imagination in advance. I must be equally

impressive ...

After a little thought I began to write.

"WASPS AND THEIR YOUNG

"_Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical

Society, Tuesday, December 8th._

"_Ladies and Gentlemen_--"

"Well," said Celia, drifting in, "how's it going?"

I showed her how far I had got.

"I thought you always began, 'My Lord Mayor, Ladies and Gentlemen,'" she

said.

"Only if the Lord Mayor's there."

"But how will you know?"

"Yes, that's rather awkward. I shall have to ask the Secretary

beforehand."

I began again.

"WASPS AND THEIR YOUNG

"_Lecture delivered, etc_....

"_My Lord Mayor, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen_--"

It looked much better.

"What about Baronets?" said Celia. "There's sure to be lots."

"Yes, this is going to be difficult. I shall have to have a long talk

with the Secretary ... How's this?--'My Lord Mayor, Lords, Baronets,

Ladies and Gentlemen and Sundries.' That's got in everybody."

"That's all right. And I wanted to ask you: Have you got any lantern

slides?"

"They're not necessary."

"But they're much more fun. Perhaps they'll have some old ones of

Vesuvius you can work in. Well, good-bye." And she drifted out.

I went on thinking.

"No," I said to myself, "I'm on the wrong tack." So I began again:--

"SOME YORKSHIRE POT-HOLES

"_Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical

Society, Tuesday, December 8th_.

"_My Lord Mayor, my Lords_--"

"I don't want to interrupt," said Celia coming in suddenly, "but--oh,

what's a pot-hole?"

"A curious underground cavern sometimes found in the North."

"Aren't caverns always underground? But you're busy. Will you be in for

lunch?"

"I shall be writing my lecture all day," I said busily.

At lunch I decided to have a little financial talk with Celia.

"What I feel is this," I said. "At most I can ask ten guineas for my

lecture. Now my expense all the way to the North, with a night at an

hotel, will be at least five pounds."

"Five-pounds-ten profit," said Celia. "Not bad."

"Ah, but wait. I have never spoken in public before. In an immense hall,

whose acoustics--"

"Who are they?"

"Well, never mind. What I mean is that I shall want some elocution

lessons. Say five, at a guinea each."

"That still leaves five shillings."

"If only it left that, it might be worth it. But there's a new white

waistcoat. An audience soon gets tired of a lecture, and then there's

nothing for the wakeful ones to concentrate on but the white waistcoat of

the lecturer. It must be of a virgin whiteness. Say thirty-five

shillings. So I lose thirty shillings by it. Can I afford so much?"

"But you gain the acoustics and the waistcoat."

"True. Of course, if you insist--"

"Oh, you _must_," said Celia.

So I returned to the library. By tea-time I had got as far as this:--

"ADVENTURES WITH A CAMERA IN SOMALILAND

"_Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philo_--"

And then I had an idea. This time a brilliant one.

"Celia," I said at tea, "I have been wondering whether I ought to take

advantage of your generosity."

"What generosity?"

"In letting me deliver this lecture."

"It isn't generosity, it's swank. I want to be able to tell everybody."

"Ah, but the sacrifices you are making."

"Am I?" said Celia, with interest.

"Of course you are. Consider. I ask a fee of ten guineas. They cannot

possibly charge more than a shilling a head to listen to me. It would

be robbery. So that if there is to be a profit at all, as presumably they

anticipate, I shall have a gate of at least two hundred and fifty."

"I should _hope_ so."

"Two hundred and fifty. And what does that mean? It means that at

seven-thirty o'clock on the night of December the 8th two hundred and

fifty residents of Blanktown will _turn out the electric lights in their

drawing-rooms ..._ PERHAPS EVEN IN THEIR HALLS ... and proceed to

the lecture-room. True, the lecture-room will be lit up--a small

compensation--but not for long. When the slides of Vesuvius are thrown

upon the screen--"

Celia was going pale.

"But if it's not you," she faltered, "it will be somebody else."

"No; if I refuse, it will be too late then to get a substitute. Besides,

they must have tried everybody else before they got down to me... Celia

it is noble of you to sacrifice--"

"Don't go!" she cried in anguish.

I gave a deep sigh.

"For your sake," I said, "I won't."

So that settles it. If my lecture on "First Principles in Homoeopathy" is

ever to be delivered, it must be delivered elsewhere.

ENTER BINGO

Before I introduce Bingo I must say a word for Humphrey, his sparring

partner. Humphrey found himself on the top of my stocking last December,

put there, I fancy, by Celia, though she says it was Father Christmas.

He is a small yellow dog, with glass optics, and the label round his neck

said, "His eyes move." When I had finished the oranges and sweets and

nuts, when Celia and I had pulled the crackers, Humphrey remained over to

sit on the music-stool, with the air of one playing the pianola. In this

position he found his uses. There are times when a husband may

legitimately be annoyed; at these times it was pleasant to kick Humphrey

off his stool on to the divan, to stand on the divan and kick him on to

the sofa, to stand on the sofa and kick him on to the bookcase; and then,

feeling another man, to replace him on the music-stool and apologize to

Celia. It was thus that he lost his tail.

Here we say good-bye to Humphrey for the present; Bingo claims our

attention. Bingo arrived as an absurd little black tub of puppiness,

warranted (by a pedigree as long as your arm) to grow into a Pekinese. It

was Celia's idea to call him Bingo; because (a ridiculous reason) as

a child she had had a poodle called Bingo. The less said about poodles

the better; why rake up the past?

"If there is the slightest chance of Bingo--of this animal growing up

into a poodle," I said, "he leaves my house at once."

"_My_ poodle," said Celia, "was a lovely dog."

(Of course she was only a child then. She wouldn't know.)

"The point is this," I said firmly, "our puppy is meant for a

Pekinese--the pedigree says so. From the look of him it will be touch and

go whether he pulls it off. To call him by the name of a late poodle may

just be the deciding factor. Now I hate poodles; I hate pet dogs. A

Pekinese is not a pet dog; he is an undersized lion. Our puppy may grow

into a small lion, or a mastiff, or anything like that; but I will _not_

have him a poodle. If we call him Bingo, will you promise never to

mention in his presence that you once had a--a--you know what I

mean--called Bingo?"

She promised. I have forgiven her for having once loved a poodle. I beg

you to forget about it. There is now only one Bingo, and he is a Pekinese

puppy.

However, after we had decided to call him Bingo, a difficulty arose.

Bingo's pedigree is full of names like Li Hung Chang and Sun Yat Sen; had

we chosen a sufficiently Chinese name for him? Apart from what was due to

his ancestors, were we encouraging him enough to grow into a Pekinese?

What was there Oriental about "Bingo"?

In itself, apparently, little. And Bingo himself must have felt this; for

his tail continued to be nothing but a rat's tail, and his body to be

nothing but a fat tub, and his head to be almost the head of any little

puppy in the world. He felt it deeply. When I ragged him about it he

tried to eat my ankles. I had only to go into the room in which he was,

and murmur, "Rat's tail," to myself, or (more offensive still) "Chewed

string," for him to rush at me. "Where, O Bingo, is that delicate

feather curling gracefully over the back, which was the pride and glory

of thy great-grandfather? Is the caudal affix of the rodent thy apology

for it?" And Bingo would whimper with shame.

Then we began to look him up in the map.

I found a Chinese town called "Ning-po," which strikes me as very much

like "Bing-go," and Celia found another one called "Yung-Ping," which

might just as well be "Yung-Bing," the obvious name of Bingo's heir when

he has one. These facts being communicated to Bingo, his nose immediately

began to go back a little and his tub to develop something of a waist.

But what finally decided him was a discovery of mine made only yesterday.

_There is a Japanese province called Bingo_. Japanese, not Chinese, it is

true; but at least it is Oriental. In any case conceive one's pride in

realizing suddenly that one has been called after a province and not

after a poodle. It has determined Bingo unalterably to grow up in the

right way.

You have Bingo now definitely a Pekinese. That being so, I may refer to

his ancestors, always an object of veneration among these Easterns. I

speak of (hats off, please!) Ch. Goodwood Lo.

Of course you know (I didn't myself till last week) that "Ch."

stands for "Champion." On the male side Champion Goodwood Lo is Bingo's

great-great-grandfather. On the female side the same animal is Bingo's

great-grandfather. One couldn't be a poodle after that. A fortnight after

Bingo came to us we found in a Pekinese book a photograph of Goodwood Lo.

How proud we all were! Then we saw above it, "Celebrities of the

Past. The Late--"

Champion Goodwood Lo was no more! In one moment Bingo had lost both his

great-grandfather and his great-great-grandfather!

We broke it to him as gently as possible, but the double shock was too

much, and he passed the evening in acute depression. Annoyed with my

tactlessness in letting him know anything about it, I kicked Humphrey off

his stool. Humphrey, I forgot to say, has a squeak if kicked in the right

place. He squeaked.

Bingo, at that time still uncertain of his destiny, had at least the

courage of the lion. Just for a moment he hesitated. Then with a pounce

he was upon Humphrey.

Till then I had regarded Humphrey--save for his power of rolling the eyes

and his habit of taking long jumps from the music-stool to the

book-case--as rather a sedentary character. But in the fight which

followed he put up an amazingly good resistance. At one time he was

underneath Bingo; the next moment he had Bingo down; first one, then the

other, seemed to gain the advantage. But blood will tell. Humphrey's

ancestry is unknown; I blush to say that it may possibly be German. Bingo

had Goodwood Lo to support him--in two places. Gradually he got the upper

hand; and at last, taking the reluctant Humphrey by the ear, he dragged

him laboriously beneath the sofa. He emerged alone, with tail wagging,

and was taken on to his mistress's lap. There he slept, his grief

forgotten.

So Humphrey was found a job. Whenever Bingo wants exercise, Humphrey

plants himself in the middle of the room, his eyes cast upwards in an

affectation of innocence. "I'm just sitting here," says Humphrey; "I

believe there's a fly on the ceiling." It is a challenge which no

great-grandson of Goodwood Lo could resist. With a rush Bingo is at him.

"I'll learn you to stand in my way," he splutters. And the great dust-up

begins....

Brave little Bingo! I don't wonder that so warlike a race as the Japanese

has called a province after him.

A WARM HALF-HOUR

Whatever the papers say, it was the hottest afternoon of the year. At

six-thirty I had just finished dressing after my third cold bath since

lunch, when Celia tapped on the door.

"I want you to do something for me," she said. "It's a shame to ask you

on a day like this."

"It _is_ rather a shame," I agreed, "but I can always refuse."

"Oh, but you mustn't. We haven't got any ice, and the Thompsons are

coming to dinner. Do you think you could go and buy threepennyworth?

Jane's busy, and I'm busy, and--"

"And I'm busy," I said, opening and shutting a drawer with great

rapidity.

"Just threepennyworth," she pleaded. "Nice cool ice. Think of sliding

home on it."

Well, of course it had to be done. I took my hat and staggered out. On an

ordinary cool day it is about half a mile to the fishmonger; to-day

it was about two miles and a quarter. I arrived exhausted, and with only

just strength enough to kneel down and press my forehead against the

large block of ice in the middle of the shop, round which the lobsters

nestled.

"Here, you mustn't do that," said the fishmonger, waving me away.

I got up, slightly refreshed.

"I want," I said, "some--" and then a thought occurred to me.

After all, _did_ fishmongers sell ice? Probably the large block in front

of me was just a trade sign like the coloured bottles at the chemist's.

Suppose I said to a fellow of the Pharmaceutical Society, "I want some of

that green stuff in the window," he would only laugh. The tactful thing

to do would be to buy a pint or two of laudanum first, and _then_, having

established pleasant relations, ask him as a friend to lend me his green

bottle for a bit.

So I said to the fishmonger, "I want some--some nice lobsters."

"How many would you like?"

"One," I said.

We selected a nice one between us, and he wrapped a piece of "Daily Mail"

round it, leaving only the whiskers visible, and gave it to me. The

ice being now broken--I mean the ice being now--well, you see what I

mean--I was now in a position to ask for some of his ice.

"I wonder if you could let me have a little piece of your ice," I

ventured.

"How much ice do you want?" he said promptly.

"Sixpennyworth," I said, feeling suddenly that Celia's threepennyworth

sounded rather paltry.

"Six of ice, Bill," he shouted to an inferior at the back, and Bill

tottered up with a block about the size of one of the lions in Trafalgar

Square. He wrapped a piece of "Daily News" round it and gave it to me.

"Is that all?" asked the fishmonger.

"That is all," I said faintly; and, with Algernon, the overwhiskered

crustacean, firmly clutched in the right hand and Stonehenge supported on

the palm of the left hand, I retired.

The flat seemed a very long way away, but having bought twice as much ice

as I wanted, and an entirely unnecessary lobster, I was not going to

waste still more money in taxis. Hot though it was, I would walk.

For some miles all went well. Then the ice began to drip through the

paper, and in a little while, the underneath part of "The Daily News"

had disappeared altogether. Tucking the lobster under my arm I turned the

block over, so that it rested on another part of the paper. Soon that had

dissolved too. By the time I had got half-way our Radical contemporary

had been entirely eaten.

Fortunately "The Daily Mail" remained. But to get it I had to disentangle

Algernon first, and I had no hand available. There was only one thing

to do. I put the block of ice down on the pavement, unwrapped the

lobster, put the lobster next to the ice, spread its "Daily Mail" out,

lifted the ice on to the paper, and--looked up and saw Mrs. Thompson

approaching.

She was the last person I wanted at that moment. In an hour and a half

she would be dining with us. Algernon would not be dining with us. If

Algernon and Mrs. Thompson were to meet now, would she not be expecting

him to turn up at every course? Think of the long drawn-out

disappointment for her; not even lobster sauce!

There was no time to lose. I decided to abandon the ice. Leaving it on

the pavement I clutched the lobster and walked hastily back the way I had

come.

By the time I had shaken off Mrs. Thompson I was almost at the

fishmonger's. That decided me. I would begin all over again, and would

do it properly this time. "I want three of ice," I said with an air.

"Three of ice, Bill," said the fishmonger, and Bill gave me quite a

respectable segment in "The Morning Post."

"And I want a taxi," I said, and I waved my lobster at one.

We drove quickly home.

But as we neared the flat I suddenly became nervous about Algernon. I

could not take him, red and undraped, past the hall-porter, past all the

other residents who might spring out at me on the stairs. Accordingly, I

placed the block of ice on the seat, took off some of its "Morning Post,"

and wrapped Algernon up decently. Then I sprang out, gave the man a coin,

and hastened into the building.

* * * * *

"Bless you," said Celia, "have you got it? How sweet of you!" And she

took my parcel from me. "Now we shall be able--Why, what's this?"

I looked at it closely.

"It's--it's a lobster," I said. "Didn't you say lobster?"

"I said ice."

"Oh," I said, "oh, I didn't understand. I thought you said lobster."

"You can't put lobster in cider cup," said Celia severely.

Of course I quite see that. It was foolish of me. However, it's pleasant

to think that the taxi must have been nice and cool for the next man.

"WRONGLY ATTRIBUTED"

You've heard of Willy Ferrero, the Boy Conductor? A musical prodigy,

seven years old, who will order the fifth oboe out of the Albert Hall as

soon as look at him. Well, he has a rival.

Willy, as perhaps you know, does not play any instrument himself; he only

conducts. His rival (Johnny, as I think of him) does not conduct as

yet; at least, not audibly. His line is the actual manipulation of the

pianoforte--the Paderewski touch. Johnny lives in the flat below, and I

hear him touching.

On certain mornings in the week--no need to specify them--I enter my

library and give myself up to literary composition. On the same

mornings little Johnny enters his music-room (underneath) and gives

himself up to musical composition. Thus we are at work together.

The worst of literary composition is this: that when you have got hold of

what you feel is a really powerful idea, you find suddenly that you have

been forestalled by some earlier writer--Sophocles or Shakespeare or

George R. Sims. Then you have to think again. This frequently happens

to me upstairs; and downstairs poor Johnny will find to his horror one

day that his great work has already been given to the world by another--a

certain Dr. John Bull.

Johnny, in fact, is discovering "God Save the King" with one finger.

As I dip my pen in the ink and begin to write, Johnny strikes up. On the

first day when this happened, some three months ago, I rose from

my chair and stood stiffly through the performance--an affair of some

minutes, owing to a little difficulty with "Send him victorious," a line

which always bothers Johnny. However, he got right through it at last,

after harking back no more than twice, and I sat down to my work again.

Generally speaking, "God Save the King" ends a show; it would be disloyal

to play any other tune after that. Johnny quite saw this ... and so began

to play "God Save the King" again.

I hope that His Majesty, the Lord Chamberlain, the late Dr. Bull, or

whoever is most concerned, will sympathize with me when I say that this

time I remained seated. I have my living to earn.

From that day Johnny has interpreted Dr. John Bull's favourite

composition nine times every morning. As this has been going on for

three months, and as the line I mentioned has two special rehearsals

to itself before coming out right, you can easily work out how many

send-him-victoriouses Johnny and I have collaborated in. About two

thousand.

Very well. Now, you ask yourself, why did I not send a polite

note to Johnny's father asking him to restrain his little boy from

over-composition, begging him not to force the child's musical genius too

quickly, imploring him (in short) to lock up the piano and lose the key?

What kept me from this course? The answer is "Patriotism." Those deep

feelings for his country which one man will express glibly by rising nine

times during the morning at the sound of the National Anthem, another

will direct to more solid uses. It was my duty, I felt, not to discourage

Johnny. He was showing qualities which could not fail, when he grew up,

to be of value to the nation. Loyalty, musical genius, determination,

patience, industry--never before have these qualities been so finely

united in a child of six. Was I to say a single word to disturb the

delicate balance of such a boy's mind? At six one is extraordinarily

susceptible to outside influence. A word from his father to the effect

that the gentleman above was getting sick of it, and Johnny's whole life

might be altered.

No, I would bear it grimly.

And then, yesterday, who should write to me but Johnny's father himself.

This was the letter:

"Dear Sir--I do not wish to interfere unduly in the affairs of the other

occupants of these flats, but I feel bound to call your attention to the

fact that for many weeks now there has been a flow of water from your

bathroom, which has penetrated through the ceiling of my bathroom,

particularly after you have been using the room in the mornings. May I

therefore beg you to be more careful in future not to splash or spill

water on your floor, seeing that it causes inconvenience to the tenants

beneath you?

"Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew."

You can understand how I felt about this. For months I had been suffering

Johnny in silence; yet, at the first little drop of water from above,

Johnny's father must break out into violent abuse of me. A fine reward!

Well, Johnny's future could look after itself now; anyhow, he was doomed

with a selfish father like that.

"Dear Sir," I answered defiantly, "Now that we are writing to each other

I wish to call your attention to the fact that for many months past there

has been a constant flow of one-fingered music from your little boy,

which penetrates through the floor of my library and makes all work

impossible. May I beg you, therefore, to see that your child is taught a

new tune immediately, seeing that the National Anthem has lost its first

freshness for the tenants above him?"

His reply to this came to-day.

"Dear Sir,--I have no child.

"Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew."

I was so staggered that I could only think of one adequate retort.

"DEAR SIR," I wrote,--"I never have a bath."

* * * * *

So that's the end of Johnny, my boy prodigy, for whom I have suffered so

long. It is not Johnny but Jno. who struggles with the National Anthem.

He will give up music now, for he knows I have the bulge on him; I can

flood his bathroom whenever I like. Probably he will learn something

quieter--like painting. Anyway, Dr. John Bull's masterpiece will rise no

more through the ceiling of the flat below.

On referring to my encyclopedia, I see that, according to some

authorities, "God Save the King" is "wrongly attributed" to Dr. Bull.

Well, I wrongly attributed it to Johnny. It is easy to make these

mistakes.

A HANGING GARDEN IN BABYLON

"Are you taking me to the Flower Show this afternoon?" asked Celia at

breakfast.

"No," I said thoughtfully; "no."

"Well, that's that. What other breakfast conversation have I? Have you

been to any theatres lately?"

"Do you really want to go to the Flower Show?" I asked. "Because I don't

believe I could bear it."

"I've saved up two shillings."

"It isn't that--not only that. But there'll be thousands of people there,

all with gardens of their own, all pointing to things and saying,

'We've got one of those in the east bed,' or 'Wouldn't that look nice in

the south orchid house?' and you and I will be quite, quite out

of it." I sighed, and helped myself from the west toast-rack.

It is very delightful to have a flat in London, but there are times in

the summer when I long for a garden of my own. I show people round our

little place, and I point out hopefully the Hot Tap Doultonii in the

scullery, and the Dorothy Perkins doormat, but it isn't the same thing as

taking your guest round your garden and telling him that what you really

want is rain. Until I can do that, the Chelsea Flower Show is no place

for us.

"Then I haven't told you the good news," said Celia. "We _are_

gardeners." She paused a moment for effect. "I have ordered a

window-box."

I dropped the marmalade and jumped up eagerly.

"But this is glorious news! I haven't been so excited since I recognized

a calceolaria last year, and told my host it was a calceolaria just

before he told me. A window-box! What's in it?"

"Pink geraniums and--and pink geraniums, and--er--"

"Pink geraniums?" I suggested.

"Yes. They're very pretty, you know."

"I know. But I could have wished for something more difficult. If we had

something like--well, I don't want to seem to harp on it, but say

calceolarias, then quite a lot of people mightn't recognize them, and I

should be able to tell them what they were. I should be able to show them

the calceolarias; you can't show people the geraniums."

"You can say, 'What do you think of _that_ for a geranium?'" said Celia.

"Anyhow," she added, "you've got to take me to the Flower Show now."

"Of course I will. It is not only a pleasure, but a duty. As gardeners we

must keep up with floricultural progress. Even though we start with pink

geraniums now, we may have--er--calceolarias next year. Rotation of crops

and--what not."

Accordingly we made our way in the afternoon to the Show.

"I think we're a little over-dressed," I said as we paid our shillings.

"We ought to look as if we'd just run up from our little window-box in

the country and were going back by the last train. I should be in

gaiters, really."

"Our little window-box is not in the country," objected Celia. "It's what

you might call a _pied de terre_ in town. French joke," she added kindly.

"Much more difficult than the ordinary sort."

"Don't forget it; we can always use it again on visitors. Now what shall

we look at first?"

"The flowers first; then the tea."

I had bought a catalogue and was scanning it rapidly.

"We don't want flowers," I said. "Our window-box--our garden is already

full. It may be that James, the head boxer, has overdone the pink

geraniums this year, but there it is. We can sack him and promote Thomas,

but the mischief is done. Luckily there are other things we want. What

about a dove-cot? I should like to see doves cooing round our geraniums."

"Aren't dove-cots very big for a window-box?"

"We could get a small one--for small doves. Do you have to buy the doves

too, or do they just come? I never know. Or there," I broke off suddenly;

"my dear, that's just the thing." And I pointed with my stick.

"We have seven clocks already," said Celia.

"But a sun-dial! How romantic. Particularly as only two of the clocks go.

Celia, if you'd let me have a sun-dial in my window-box, I would

meet you by it alone sometimes."

"It sounds lovely," she said doubtfully.

"You do want to make this window-box a success, don't you?" I asked as we

wandered on. "Well, then, help me to buy something for it. I don't

suggest one of those," and I pointed to a summer-house, "or even a

weather-cock; but we must do something now we're here. For instance,

what about one of these patent extension ladders, in case the geraniums

grow very tall and you want to climb up and smell them? Or would you

rather have some mushroom spawn? I would get up early and pick the

mushrooms for breakfast. What do you think?"

"I think it's too hot for anything, and I must sit down. Is this seat an

exhibit or is it meant for sitting on?"

"It's an exhibit, but we might easily want to buy one some day, when our

window-box gets bigger. Let's try it."

It was so hot that I think, if the man in charge of the Rustic Bench

Section had tried to move us on, we should have bought the seat at once.

But nobody bothered us. Indeed it was quite obvious that the news that we

owned a large window-box had not yet got about.

"I shall leave you here," I said, after I had smoked a cigarette and

dipped into the catalogue again, "and make my purchase. It will be quite

inexpensive; indeed, it is marked in the catalogue at one-and-six-pence,

which means that they will probably offer me the nine-shilling size

first. But I shall be firm. Good-bye."

I went and bought one and returned to her with it.

"No, not now," I said, as she held out her hand eagerly. "Wait till we

get home."

It was cooler now, and we wandered through the tents, chatting

patronizingly to the stall-keeper whenever we came to pink geraniums.

At the orchids we were contemptuously sniffy. "Of course," I said, "for

those who _like_ orchids--" and led the way back to the geraniums

again. It was an interesting afternoon.

And to our great joy the window-box was in position when we got home

again.

"Now!" I said dramatically, and I unwrapped my purchase and placed it in

the middle of our new-made garden.

"Whatever--"

"A slug-trap," I explained proudly.

"But how could slugs get up here?" asked Celia in surprise.

"How do slugs get anywhere? They climb up the walls, or they come up in

the lift, or they get blown about by the wind--I don't know. They

can fly up if they like; but, however it be, when they do come, I mean to

be ready for them."

Still, though our slug-trap will no doubt come in usefully, it is not

what we really want. What we gardeners really want is rain.

SISTERLY ASSISTANCE

I was talking to a very stupid man the other day. He was the stupidest

man I have come across for many years. It is a hard thing to say of any

man, but he appeared to me to be entirely lacking in intellect.

It was Celia who introduced me to him. She had rung up her brother at the

flat where he was staying, and, finding that he was out, she gave a

message for him to the porter. It was simply that he was to ring her up

as soon as he came in.

"Ring up who?" said the porter. At least I suppose he did, for Celia

repeated her name (and mine) very slowly and distinctly.

"Mrs. who?" said the porter, "What?" or "I can't hear," or something

equally foolish.

Celia then repeated our name again.

There followed a long conversation between the two of them, the

audible part of it (that is Celia's) consisting of my name given

forth in a variety of intonations, in the manner of one who sings an

anthem--hopefully, pathetically, dramatically, despairingly.

Up to this moment I had been rather attached to my name. True, it wants a

little explaining to shopkeepers. There are certain consonants

in it which require to be elided or swallowed or swivelled round the

glottis, in order to give the name its proper due. But after five or six

applications the shopkeeper grasps one's meaning.

Well, as I say, I was attached to my name. But after listening to Celia

for five minutes I realized that there had been some horrible mistake.

People weren't called that.

"Just wait a moment," I said to her rather anxiously, and picked up the

telephone book. To my great relief I found that Celia was right. There

_was_ a person of that name living at my address.

"You're quite right," I said. "Go on."

"I wish I had married somebody called Jones," said Celia, looking up at

me rather reproachfully. "No, no, not Jones," she added hastily down the

telephone, and once more she repeated the unhappy name.

"It isn't my fault," I protested. "You did have a choice; I had none. Try

spelling it. It spells all right."

Celia tried spelling it.

"I'm going to spell it," she announced very distinctly down the

telephone. "Are you ready? ... M ... No, _M_. M for mother."

That gave me an idea.

"Come away," I said, seizing the telephone; "leave it to me. Now, then,"

I called to the porter. "Never mind about the name. Just tell him to ring

up his _sister_." And I looked at Celia triumphantly.

"Ask him to ring up his mother," said the porter. "Very well, sir."

"No, not the mother. That was something else. Forget all about that

mother. He's to ring up his sister ... _sister_ ... SISTER."

"You'll have to spell it," said Celia.

"I'm going to spell it," I shouted. "Are you ready? ... _S_ for--for

sister."

"Now you're going to muddle him," murmured Celia.

"S for sister; have you got that? ... No, _sister_, idiot. I for idiot,"

I added quickly. "S for sister--this is another sister, of course. T

for two. Got that? No, _two_. Two anything--two more sisters, if you

like. E for--E for--" I turned helplessly to Celia: "quick, a word to

begin with E! I've got him moving now. E for--quick, before his tympanum

runs down."

"Er--er--" Desperately she tried to think.

"E for er," I shouted. "That'll be another sister, I expect ... Celia, I

believe we ought to spell it with an 'H.' Can't you think of a better

word?"

"Enny," said Celia, having quite lost her nerve by this time.

"E for enny," I shouted. "Any anything. Any of the sisters I've been

telling you about. R for--quick, Celia!"

"Rose," she said hastily.

"R for Rose," I shouted. "Rose the flower--or the sister if you like.

There you are, that's the whole word. Now then, I'll just spell it to

you over again.... Celia, I want another word for E. That last was a bad

one."

"Edith?"

"Good."

I took a deep breath and began.

"S for sister. I for Isabel--Isabel is the name of the sister. S for

another sister--I'll tell you _her_ name directly. T for two sisters,

these two that we're talking about. E for Edith, that's the second sister

whose name I was going to tell you. R for Rose. Perhaps I ought to

explain Rose. She was the sister whom these two sisters were sisters of.

Got that?" I turned to Celia. "I'm going to get the sister idea into his

head if I die for it."

"Just a moment, sir," said the dazed voice of the porter.

"What's the matter? Didn't I make it clear about Rose? She was the sister

whom the--"

"Just hold the line a moment, sir," implored the porter. "Here's the

gentleman himself coming in."

I handed the telephone to Celia. "Here he is," I said.

But I was quite sorry to go, for I was getting interested in those

sisters. Rose, I think, will always be my favourite. Her life, though

short, was full of incident, and there were many things about her which I

could have told that porter. But perhaps he would not have appreciated

them. It is a hard thing to say of any man, but he appeared to me to be

entirely lacking in intellect.

THE OBVIOUS

Celia had been calling on a newly married friend of hers. They had been

schoolgirls together; they had looked over the same algebra book (or

whatever it was that Celia learnt at school--I have never been quite

certain); they had done their calisthenics side by side; they had

compared picture post cards of Lewis Waller. Ah, me! the fairy princes

they had imagined together in those days ... and here am I, and somewhere

in the City (I believe he is a stockbroker) is Ermyntrude's husband, and

we play our golf on Saturday afternoons, and go to sleep after dinner,

and--Well, anyhow, they were both married, and Celia had been calling on

Ermyntrude.

"I hope you did all the right things," I said. "Asked to see the

wedding-ring, and admired the charming little house, and gave a few hints

on the proper way to manage a husband."

"Rather," said Celia. "But it did seem funny, because she used to be

older than me at school."

"Isn't she still?"

"Oh, _no_! I'm ever so much older now.... Talking about wedding-rings,"

she went on, as she twisted her own round and round, "she's got all sorts

of things written inside hers--the date and their initials and I don't

know what else."

"There can't be much else--unless perhaps she has a very large finger."

"Well, I haven't got _anything_ in mine," said Celia, mournfully. She

took off the offending ring and gave it to me.

On the day when I first put the ring on her finger, Celia swore an oath

that nothing but death, extreme poverty or brigands should ever remove

it. I swore too. Unfortunately it fell off in the course of the

afternoon, which seemed to break the spell somehow. So now it goes off

and on just like any other ring. I took it from her and looked inside.

"There are all sorts of things here too," I said. "Really, you don't seem

to have read your wedding-ring at all. Or, anyhow, you've been skipping."

"There's nothing," said Celia in the same mournful voice. "I do think you

might have put something."

I went and sat on the arm of her chair, and held the ring up.

"You're an ungrateful wife," I said, "after all the trouble I took. Now

look there," and I pointed with a pencil, "what's the first thing you

see?"

"Twenty-two. That's only the--"

"That was your age when you married me. I had it put in at enormous

expense. If you had been eighteen, the man said, or--or nine, it would

have come much cheaper. But no, I would have your exact age. You were

twenty-two and that's what I had engraved on it. Very well. Now what do

you see next to it?"

"A crown."

"Yes. And what does that mean? In the language of--er--crowns it means

'You are my queen.' I insisted on a crown. It would have been cheaper to

have had a lion, which means--er--lions, but I was determined not to

spare myself. For I thought," I went on pathetically, "I quite thought

you would like a crown."

"Oh, I do," cried Celia quickly, "if it really means that." She took the

ring in her hands and looked at it lovingly. "And what's that there? Sort

of a man's head."

I gazed at her sadly.

"You don't recognize it? Has a year of marriage so greatly changed me?

Celia, it is your Ronald! I sat for that, hour after hour, day after day,

for your sake, Celia. It is not a perfect likeness; in the small space

allotted to him the sculptor has hardly done me justice. And there," I

added, "is his initial 'r.' Oh, woman, the amount of thought I spent on

that ring!"

She came a little closer and slipped the ring on my finger.

"Spend a little more," she pleaded. "There's plenty of room. Just have

something nice written in it--something about you and me."

"Like 'Pisgah'?"

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it's 'Mizpah,' or 'Ichabod,' or 'Habakkuk.' I'm

sure there's a word you put on rings--I expect they'd know at the shop."

"But I don't want what they know at shops. It must be something quite

private and special."

"But the shop has got to know about it when I tell them. And I don't like

telling strange men in shops private and special things about ourselves.

I love you, Celia, but--"

"That would be a lovely thing," she said, clasping her hands eagerly.

"What?"

"'I love you, Celia.'"

I looked at her aghast.

"Do you want me to order that in cold blood from the shopman?"

"He wouldn't mind. Besides, if he saw us together he'd probably know. You

aren't afraid of a goldsmith, are you?"

"I'm not afraid of any goldsmith living--or goldfish either, if it come

to that. But I should prefer to be sentimental in some other language

than plain English. I could order '_Cars sposa_,' or--or '_Spaghetti,'_

or anything like that, without a tremor."

"But of course you shall put just whatever you like. Only--only let it be

original. Not Mizpahs."

"Right," I said.

For three days I wandered past gold and silversmiths with the ring in my

pocket ... and for three days Celia went about without a wedding-ring,

and, for all I know, without even her marriage-lines in her muff. And on

the fourth day I walked boldly in.

"I want," I said, "a wedding-ring engraved," and I felt in my pockets.

"Not initials," I said, and I felt in some more pockets, "but--but--"

I tried the trousers pockets again. "Well, look here, I'll be quite frank

with you. I--er--want--" I fumbled in my ticket-pocket, "I want 'I love

you' on it," and I went through the waistcoat pockets a third time.

"'I--er--love you.'"

"Me?" said the shopman, surprised.

"I love you," I repeated mechanically. "I love you. I love you, I--Well,

look here, perhaps I'd better go back and get the ring."

On the next day I was there again; but there was a different man behind

the counter.

"I want this ring engraved," I said.

"Certainly. What shall we put?"

I had felt the question coming. I had a sort of instinct that he would

ask me that. But I couldn't get the words out again.

"Well," I hesitated, "I--er--well."

"Ladies often like the date put in. When is it to be?"

"When is what to be?"

"The wedding," he smiled.

"It has been," I said. "It's all over. You're too late for it."

I gave myself up to thought. At all costs I must be original. There must

be something on Celia's wedding-ring that had never been in any

other's....

There was only one thing I could think of.

* * * * *

The engraved ring arrived as we were at tea a few days later, and I had a

sudden overwhelming fear that Celia would not be pleased. I saw that I

must explain it to her. After all, there was a distinguished precedent.

"Come into the bath-room a moment," I said, and I led the way.

She followed, wondering.

"What is that?" I asked, pointing to a blue thing on the floor.

"The bath-mat," she said, surprised.

"And what is written on it?"

"Why--'bath-mat,' of course."

"Of course," I said ... and I handed her the wedding-ring.

VI. A FEW GUESTS

BAD LORD BLIGHT

_(A Moral Story for the Middle-aged)_

I

Seated in the well-appointed library of Blight Hall, John Blighter,

Seventeenth Earl of Blight, bowed his head in his hands and gave himself

up to despair. The day of reckoning had come.

Were appearances not so deceptive, one would have said that Lord Blight

("Blight," as he was known familiarly to his friends) was a man to be

envied. In a revolving book-case in the middle of the spacious library

were countless treasured volumes, including a complete edition of

Thackeray; outside in the well-kept grounds of the estate was a new

lawn-mower; a bottle of sherry, freshly uncorked, stood upon the

sideboard in the dining-room. But worldly possessions are not everything.

An untroubled mind, as Shakespeare knew (even if he didn't actually say

it), is more to be valued than riches. The seventeenth Earl of Blight's

mind was not untroubled. His conscience was gnawing him.

Some people would say, no doubt, that his conscience was too sensitive.

True, there were episodes in his past life of which in later years he

could not wholly approve; but is not this the case with every one of us?

Far better, as must often have occurred to Milton, to strive for the

future than to regret the past. Ten years ago Lord Blight had been plain

John Blighter, with no prospects in front of him. Realizing that he could

expect little help from others, he decided to push for himself. He began

by pushing three cousins over the cliffs at Scarborough, thus becoming

second heir to the earldom. A week later he pushed an elder brother over

the same cliff, and was openly referred to in the Press as the next

bearer of the title. Barely a fortnight had elapsed before a final push

diverted the last member of the family (a valued uncle) into the

ever-changing sea, the venue in this case being Whitby, presumably in

order to avoid suspicion.

But all this had happened ten years ago. The past is the past, as

Wordsworth probably said to Coleridge more than once. It was time for

Lord Blight to forget these incidents of his eager and impetuous youth.

Yet somehow he could not. Within the last few days his conscience had

begun to gnaw him, and in his despair he told himself that at last the

day of reckoning had come. Poor Blight! It is difficult to withhold our

sympathy from him.

The door opened, and his wife, the Countess of Blight, came into the

library.

"Blight!" she whispered. "My poor Blight! What has happened?"

He looked up haggardly.

"Gertie," he said, for that was her name, "it is all over. My sins have

found me out."

"Not sins," she said gently. "Mistakes."

"Mistakes, yes--you are right." He stretched out a hand, took a letter

from the desk in front of him and gave it to her. "Read that." With a

groan he buried his head in his hands again. She took it and read, slowly

and wonderingly, these words:--

"To lawn-mower as delivered, £5 17s. 6d."

Lord Blight looked up with an impatient ejaculation "Give it to me," he

said in some annoyance, snatching it away from her and throwing it into

the waste-paper basket. "Here, this is the one. Read it; read it quickly;

for we must decide what to do."

She read it with starting eyes.

"DEAR SIR,--I am prepared to lend you anything from £10 to £10,000 on

your note-of-hand alone. Should you wish--"

"D--n!" said the seventeenth Earl of Blight. "Here, where is the blessed

thing?" He felt in his pockets. "I must have--I only had it a--Ah, here

it is. Perhaps I had better read it to you this time." He put on his

spectacles--a present from an aunt--and read as follows:--

"MY LORD,--We regret to inform you that a claimant to the title has

arisen. It seems that, soon after the death of his first wife, the

sixteenth Earl of Blight contracted a second and secret marriage to Ellen

Podby, by whom he had eleven sons, the eldest of whom is now asserting

his right to the earldom and estates. Trusting to be favoured with your

instructions in the matter, We are, my lord,

"Yours faithfully,

"BILLINGS, BILLINGS & BILLINGS."

Gertie (Countess of Blight) looked at her husband in horror.

"Eleven!" she cried.

"Eleven," said the Earl gloomily.

Then a look of grim determination came into his eyes. With the air of one

who might have been quoting Keats, but possibly wasn't, he said firmly:

"What man has done, man can do."

That evening the Countess of Blight gave orders for eleven spare bedrooms

to be got ready.

II

On the morning after the arrival of the eleven Podbys (as they had been

taught to call themselves) John, seventeenth Earl of Blight, spoke

quite frankly to Algernon, the eldest.

"After all, my dear Algernon," he said, "we are cousins. There is no need

for harsh words between us. All I ask is that you should forbear to make

your claim until I have delivered my speech in the House of Lords on the

Coast Erosion Bill, upon which I feel deeply. Once the Bill is through, I

shall be prepared to retire in your favour. Meanwhile let us all enjoy

together the simple pleasures of Blight Hall."

Algernon, a fair young man with a meaningless expression, replied

suitably.

So for some days the eleven Podbys gave themselves up to pleasure. Percy,

the youngest, though hardly of an age to appreciate the mechanism of it,

was allowed to push the lawn-mower. Lancelot and Herbert, who had

inherited the Podby intellect, were encouraged to browse around the

revolving bookcase, from which they frequently extracted one of the works

of Thackeray, replacing it again after a glance at the title page; while

on one notable occasion the Earl of Blight took Algernon into the

dining-room at about 11.31 in the morning and helped him to a glass of

sherry and a slice of sultana cake. In this way the days passed happily,

and confidence between the eleven Podbys and their cousin was

established.

It was on a fair spring morning, just a week after their arrival, that

the Countess of Blight came into the music-room (where Algernon was

humming a tune) and said, "Ah, Algernon, my husband was looking for you.

I think he has some little excursion to propose. What a charming day, is

it not? You will find him in the library."

As Algernon entered the library, Lord Blight looked up from the map he

was studying and nodded.

"I thought," he said, coming to the point at once, "that it might amuse

you to drive over with me to Flamborough Head. The view from the top of

the cliff is considered well worth a visit. I don't know if your tastes

lie in that direction at all?"

Algernon was delighted at the idea, and replied that nothing would give

him greater pleasure than to accompany Lord Blight.

"Excellent. Perhaps we had better take some sandwiches and make a day of

it."

Greatly elated at the thought of a day by the sea, Lord Blight went out

and gave instructions to the Countess for sandwiches to be cut.

"In two packets, my love," he added, "in case Algernon and I get

separated."

Half an hour later they started off together in high spirits.

* * * * *

It was dark before the seventeenth Earl of Blight returned to the house

and joined the others at the dinner-table. His face wore a slightly

worried expression.

"The fact is, my dear," he said, in answer to a question from the

Countess, "I am a little upset about Algernon. I fear we have lost him."

"Algernon?" said the Countess in surprise.

"Yes. We were standing at the top of Flamborough Head, looking down into

the sea, when--" He paused and tapped his glass, "Sherry, Jenkins," he

said, catching the butler's eye.

"I beg your pardon, my lord."

"--When poor Algernon stumbled and--Do any of you boys know if your

brother can swim?"

Everard, the ninth, said that Algernon had floated once in the Paddington

Baths, but couldn't swim.

"Ah! I was hoping--But in any case, coming into the water from that

height--Well, well, we must face our troubles bravely. Another glass of

sherry, Jenkins."

As they passed through the hall on their way to the drawing-room, Lord

Blight stopped a moment at the aneroid barometer and gave it an

encouraging tap.

"It looks like another fine day to-morrow," he said to Cuthbert, the

second Podby. "The panorama from the Scalby cliffs is unrivalled.

We might drive over and have a look at it."

III

Fortunately the weather held up. A week later the Podby family had been

thinned down to five, and the seventeenth Earl of Blight was beginning

to regain his usual equanimity. His health too was benefiting by the

constant sea air and change; for, in order that no melancholy

associations should cast a gloom over their little outings, he took care

to visit a different health-resort each time, feeling that no expense or

trouble should be spared in a matter of this kind. It was wonderful with

what vigour and alertness of mind he sat down in the evenings to the

preparation of his speech on the Coast Erosion Bill.