MY DEAR MARJORIE,--Since I wrote to you last, ARTHUR has developed
unmistakable signs of acute jealousy. _Bluebeard_ was mild in
comparison with him; _Othello_ childishly unsuspicious. At first, I
liked it, and was flattered; but it is now beginning to be a little
wearing. Also, I find that it has the effect of making me ridiculously
and unjustifiably vain; catching, as it were, from ARTHUR, the idea
that everyone I meet must necessarily admire me, and would like to
take his place. A quite absurd instance of this has just happened, of
which I am rather ashamed. My cousin FREDDY, who is staying with us in
the country, has a musical friend, called PERCIVAL, for whose talents
and accomplishments FREDDY has the greatest possible admiration.
Having got permission to bring him down, FREDDY instantly dragged him
to the piano and insisted on his playing and singing a song which went
like this:--
"The people call me DAISY,
Little DAISY, with the dimple,
And all the boys are fond of me
Because I am so simple," &c.
We were all charmed, except ARTHUR, and except PERCIVAL himself.
PERCIVAL composes songs, called "_Dreaming Eyes_," "_Far from Thee_,"
"_Ever_"; besides, he can play WAGNER, and MASCAGNI, and TOSTI, and
all kinds of real classical music, and didn't quite like to be treated
as if he were a mere music-hall singer. He is a gentle, amiable
creature, without any pose, and with (as I know _now_) not the very
smallest intention or desire to steal the heart of one who belonged
to another. It would be difficult to find anyone less likely than
PERCIVAL to break up--let us say, for instance, a happy English home.
ARTHUR thought otherwise; to ARTHUR, PERCIVAL seemed a _Don Juan_,
a gay _Lothario_, a very _Lovelace_, the most dangerous of young
troubadours. And he glared--really, glared is the only word--so much
while I talked to poor young PERCIVAL that I, also, actually began to
think there must be something in it; and, from mischief, I talked
to him the more. After dinner, we danced. To tease ARTHUR, who was
snubbing everyone and looking sulky, I couldn't resist sitting in
the conservatory a little while with FREDDY'S friend. True, my
conversation with this reckless _Rizzio_ might have been, word for
word, carried on between two provincial old ladies: and yet, the
knowledge that ARTHUR wouldn't have believed it, gave a sort of
imaginary romantic wickedness to the whole thing. He asked me if I had
read _Trilby_, and said he had, curiously enough, never seen the _Shop
Girl_. We agreed, that though we didn't much like the winter, still
it was certainly a nice change after the summer. We had reached
this point, when ARTHUR came into the conservatory; I rose, so did
PERCIVAL, and at the same time he handed me a little piece of paper on
which he had, while he talked, been writing something in pencil....
I walked away with ARTHUR, mechanically squeezing the little bit of
paper in my hand.
"What," he said, furiously, "was that letter that young fool gave
you?"
Becoming frightened, I denied that he had given me a letter, slipped
it into my mouth, and slowly ate it.... We had a scene. I cried; we
made it up, and he gave me a new brooch afterwards.
The next day I seized an opportunity to tell PERCIVAL that he
_mustn't_ do such things, as it made ARTHUR very angry, and also
to ask what was on the piece of paper. He looked at me. "Why, Miss
GLADYS," he said, "didn't you show it to your future husband?"
"What was it?" I asked, timidly.
"It was my publisher's address. You said you would like to have some
of my songs, and----" Thank heaven, he has gone away now, and as
FREDDY is always cycling, there is peace again.
But advise me what to do about ARTHUR.
Your affectionate friend,
GLADYS.
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[Illustration: THE GREAT PRIZE FIGHT.
_Johnnie_ (_who finds that his Box, £20, has been appropriated by "the
Fancy"_). "I BEG YOUR PARDON, BUT THIS IS _MY_ BOX!"
_Bill Bashford._ "OH, IS IT? WELL, WHY DON'T YOU TIKE IT?"]
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