His name was, so to speak, the fine flower of Delia's imagination,
and of mine. Mrs. Mutimer-Sympson gave him to Delia as a war-time
birthday-present, and he was at once acclaimed as "fascinating," which
he may have been, and "lovely," which he certainly was not. His usual
abiding-place was the kitchen, in comfortable proximity to the range,
which he shared with one of his kind or of a lower order; but there
were occasions when he honoured the dining-room with a visit.
"Though he mustn't come in when we've callers," said Delia: this was
in the early days, when his title and status were as yet nebulous.
"But why not?" I protested. "William's all right, so long as he's
reasonably clean."
Delia raised her eyebrows _a la francaise_.
"William?"
"William," I repeated firmly. "What else would you call him?"
"I should have thought," said Delia coldly, "that it would have been
plain, even to the meanest intelligence, that he was Archibald."
"On the contrary," I retorted, "no sentient being can gaze upon him
without recognizing him as William."
At this moment the treasure in question, who had been making contented
little purring noises near the fire, was apparently startled by a
falling coal, for he raised his voice in a high note of appeal.
"Did a nasty man call him out of his name, then!" said Delia,
snatching him up.
"If you're not careful," I reminded her, "William, will ruin your new
blouse."
"Of course," said Delia, with an air of trying to be reasonable with
an utterly unreasonable person, "there'd be no objection to his having
a _second_ name."
"None whatever. 'William Archibald' goes quite well."
"'Archibald William' goes better. And it's going to be that, or just
plain 'Archibald.'" Delia added defiantly that she wasn't going to
argue, because she wanted her tea, and so did he.
For the next three days we refrained from argument accordingly,
sometimes calling him one name, sometimes another. The thing ended,
perhaps inevitably, in a compromise. He became "Archibill."
It was curious how the charms of Archibill grew upon us--how his
personality developed under Delia's care. She insisted that he
recognized her step, and that the piercingly shrill cry he gave was
for her ear alone. Perhaps it was so--women have more subtle powers
of perception than men. There was real pathos in their first parting,
which came when an inconsiderate grand-aunt in Scotland, knowing
nothing of Archibill's claims, made Delia promise to pay her a
ten-days' visit.
"You mustn't mind Missis being away, old boy," Delia told him,
"because she'll be coming back soon. And, although Master's going
to stay with his sister, you won't be lonely. There's a nice kind
charlady who'll look in every day to make sure that you haven't been
stolen by horrid tramps, and that the silver spoons are safe." Yet,
from what she has told me since, I know that her spirits were heavy
with foreboding when she left by the 11.23 from Euston.
We returned, later than we expected, together. The nice kind charlady
had done her work for the day, and left, but a fire burned cheerfully
in the dining-room and the table was laid for tea.
"And where," demanded Delia, "is Archibill?"
Even as she spoke she sped into the kitchen. A moment later I heard a
cry, and followed.
"Look!" said Delia.
He lay near the range, a wrecked and worn-out shadow of his former
self, incapable of even a sigh. Tenderly she lifted him.
"It's just neglect," she said. "Why did I leave him! Something always
happens when one leaves such treasures as Archibill."
"It mayn't be too late to do something," I said; "I'll run down with
him to Gramshaw's after tea."
"_After_ tea!" echoed Delia reproachfully. I went at once.
A fortnight has passed since then. Once more Archibill makes cheerful
murmuring noises on the hearth. He looks, I fancy, older; otherwise
there is little change to record.
Yesterday morning I received Gramshaw's bill: "_To putting new Bottom
to patent Whistling Kettle, and repairing Spout_--L0 2_s._ 9_d._"
Delia says it's worth twenty two-and-ninepences to listen to Archibill
calling her when he boils.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FAR-REACHING EFFECT OF THE RUSSIAN PUSH.]
* * * * *