It all happened so naturally, so inevitably, yet so tragically--like a
Greek play, as Willoughby said afterwards.
Willoughby is my younger brother, and in his lighter moments is a Don
at Oxford or Cambridge; it will be safer not to specify which. In
his younger and more serious days he used to play the banjo quite
passably, and, when the Hicksons asked us to dine, they insisted that
he should bring his instrument and help to make music to which
the young people might dance, for it seems that this instrument is
peculiarly suited to the kind of dancing now in vogue. Willoughby had
not played upon the banjo for fifteen years, but he unearthed it from
the attic, restrung it, and in the event did better than might have
been expected.
Anyhow, he did not succeed in spoiling the evening, which I consider
went well, despite the severe trial, to one of my proportions, of
having to perform, soon after dinner, a number of scenes "to rhyme
with _hat_." Indeed, when I was finally pushed alone on to the stage,
any chagrin I might have felt at the ease with which the audience
guessed at once that I represented "fat" was swallowed up in the
relief at being allowed to rest awhile, for "fat" proved to be
correct.
It is not of dumb-crambo, however, nor of hunt-the-slipper (a dreadful
game), nor of "bump" (a worse game) that I wish to speak, but of that
which befell after.
It was a very wet night, and when the hour for our departure arrived
there arose some uncertainty as to whether we could find a taxi
willing to take us home.
"I will interview the porter," said Willoughby (the Hicksons live in
a flat), and he disappeared, to return in a few minutes with something
of the air of a conspirator.
"Get your coat on," he said curtly.
"Have you a taxi?"
"No, I have a car. Get your coat on, and be quick about it."
"A car?" I said. "What car? Whose car?"
Willoughby turned upon me. "If you prefer to walk, you can," he said;
"if not, get your coat on, as I say, and don't ask stupid questions."
I did not prefer to walk--would that I had!--but proceeded to bid my
host and hostess Good-night. Even as I was doing so the porter came to
the door.
"Hurry up, Sir," he called to Willoughby in a stage whisper. "He can't
wait; he's late already."
As we followed him into the hall the porter went on whispering to
Willoughby.
"Friend of mine. Always do me a turn. Going right to your square." He
continued to nod his head confidentially.
Willoughby turned to me.
"Got half-a-crown?" he grunted.