Then, again, everyone wants to give a dance on peace night. I'd
settled to give a big affair with some perfectly new departures, and
all the nicest people I wanted have said, "Sorry, dearest, but I'm
giving one myself that night." I've no patience with the silliness and
selfishness of everybody.
Talking of dances, one's getting a bit _dégoûtée_ of Jazz bands and
steps. When _ces autres_ get hold of anything it always begins to
leave off being amusing. There's really a new step, however, the Peace
Leap, that hasn't yet been quite _usé_ and spoilt by the outlying
tribes. The origin of it was a little funny. Chippy Havilland was
at one of Kickshaw's Jazz dinners one night, where people fly out of
their seats to one-step and two-step between the courses and during
the courses and all the time. Well, while Chippy was eating his fish
the band struck up that catchy Jazz-stagger, "She's corns on her
toes," and Chippy, his mouth full of fish, jumped up and began to
dance. _Of course_ several fish-bones flew down his throat, and while
he was choking he did such fearful and wonderful things that the whole
room, not dreaming the poor dear was at his _dernier soupir_, broke
out clapping and shouting and then imitated him, and by the time
Chippy felt better he found himself famous and everybody doing the
Peace Leap, which has completely cut out the Jazz-stagger, the Wolf's
Prowl and everything else.
Oh, my dearest, who _do_ you think are among the crowd of married
people who're going to celebrate peace by dissolving partnership? The
Algy Mallowdenes! Our prize couple! The _flitchiest_ of Dunmow Flitch
pairs! The _turtlest_ of turtle--doves! Whenever people spoke of
marriage as played out other people always weighed in with, "Well, but
look at the Algy Mallowdenes."
They married on war-bread and Government cheese and kisses
(unrationed). Seriously, though, _m'amie_, I believe they'd
scarcely anything beyond his two thousand pounds a year as Permanent
Irremovable Assistant Under-Secretary at the No-Use-Coming-Here
Office. Certainly an "official residence" and a staff of servants were
allowed 'em, but when poor Lallie asked to have a ball-room built, and
Algy said he simply _must_ have a billiard-room and smoke-room added,
one of those fearful red-flag creatures got up in the House just
as the money was going to be voted and made such an uproar that the
matter was dropped.
And then, having heaps of spare time at the No-Use-Coming-Here Office,
Algy began to write novels and found himself at once. You've read some
of them, of course? Life with a big L, my dear. Every kind of world
while you wait, the upper, the under, and the half. Lallie was
very glad of the money that came rolling in, but I believe she said
wistfully, "How does my gentle quiet Algy know so much about
this, that and the other?" And her gentle quiet Algy made answer:
"Intuition, dear; imagination; the novelist's temperament."
By-and-by, however, she began to hear of his being seen at the Umpty
Club and Gaston's, chatting with Pearl Preston (one of those people,
you know, Daphne, who're immensely talked about but never mentioned).
And then a "certain liveliness" set in at the official residence of
the Permanent Irremovable Assistant Under-Secretary.
"You silly little goosey!" said Algy; "don't you see that it's not as
a man who admires her but as a novelist who's studying her that I
talk to Pearl Preston? She's my next heroine. A heroine like that is a
_sine quâ non_ in a novel of the Modernist school."
But Lallie _couldn't_ see the dif between a man and a novelist, and
Algy _couldn't_ write his best seller without studying its heroine,
and so--and so--at last our poor prize couple are in that long list
that an overworked judge complained of the other day. And if you ask
for the moral I suppose it's "Don't try to study character where there
isn't any."
This is emphatically a season for _arms_, my Daphne, which seems quite
a good little idea for peace-time! Faces and figures don't count; it's
the arm, the whole arm and nothing but the arm! There are all sorts
of stunts for attracting attention to round white arms, and if one has
the other kind one had better go and do a rest-cure. Your Blanche is
beyond criticism in that respect, as you know, and the other night at
the opera I'd a _succès fou_ with a big black-enamel beetle, held in
place by an invisible platinum chain, crawling on my upper arm.
Lady Manoeuvrer is simply _ravie de joie_ at the rage for arms, for
her Daffodil, who's been a great worry to her (she's the only clever
one, you know, all the others being pretty), has the best arms of the
whole bunch. She's taken Madame Fallalerie's course, "The Fascination
of the Arms," and is made to flourish hers about from morn to
night, poor child, till she sometimes does a small weep from sheer
exhaustion. The other day at Kempford Races, in a no-sleeved coatee
with a black sticking-plaster racehorse in full gallop on her upper
arm, she attracted plenty of attention and had two offers, I hear.
Arms and the man, again!
_À propos_, Lady Manoeuvrer told me yesterday she'd sent a
thank-offering to one of the hospitals. "But how sweet of you!" I
said. "For the restoration of Peace, I suppose?" "No, dearest," she
whispered; "for the restoration of the London Season!"
Ever thine, BLANCHE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tube Habitué (homeward bound)._ "TWO STRAPS,
'AMMERSMITH."]
* * * * *
"LETTS TAKE RIGA."
_Daily Mail._
Yes, and let's keep it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Manager (introducing music-hall turn)._ "LADIES
AND GENTLEMEN, KHAGOOLA WILL NOW PROCEED TO GIVE HIS ASTOUNDING
CLAIRVOYANT, MEMORY AND SECOND SIGHT ACT, AND WILL ANSWER ANY QUESTION
THAT ANY MEMBER OF THE AUDIENCE MAY PUT TO HIM."
_Voice from Gallery_. "TELL US WHERE THERE'S A 'OUSE TO LET."]
* * * * *