"Dear Madam,--I accept with thanks. Sarah gets rather outside
sometimes, but we do what we can for him. Till then,--
"I am yours affectionately,--
"A.J.R. Trimble."
Warminster's was, no doubt, meant to be impressive:--"The President of
the Philosophical Conversation Club presents his compliments to Mrs
Jones, and desires to inform her of his intention to wait upon her at
the hour named in her letter. He trusts that Mrs Jones is in good
health, and that her ailing child will be spared to her a little longer.
Having several matters to attend to, the President of the Philosophical
Conversation Club must now abruptly terminate, namely, Percy Algernon
Warminster."
The ending seemed to me decidedly weak compared with the rest. I will
only give one more--that of Coxhead:--
"Dear Mrs Jones, I'll come to tea;
At six o'clock you shall me see.
I'm sorry Sarah's been laid up
And drinks his physic from a cup.
Unless unto the contrary I hear.
My Eton suit I think I'll wear.
And now 'farewell,' as great John Knox said.
Yours truly, Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead."
This effusion struck me as rather like cheek; but my mother seemed to
like it.
As evening approached I began to grow very nervous, and have to confess
that my mother was the cause of my concern. I was so afraid she was not
properly impressed with the gravity of the occasion--that perhaps she
would not be dressed at her best--or that the tea might not be up to the
mark--or that for any cause the fellows should consider they had been
"done." I'm sure I wearied the life out of her by my inquiries as to
the nature of the jam, as to whether the cake would go round twice,
whether any of the teacups were cracked, whether the nine chairs ranged
round the little room were all sound on their legs, who would open the
door to let them in, whether my mother would mind not proposing juvenile
games like table-turning, or clumps, and whether when the time came for
them to go she would mind not looking at her watch or yawning, for fear
they should think it a hint.
All which points the dear soul faithfully promised should be borne in
mind and attended to, with a little quiet banter at my expense, which
helped to remind me that, after all, one's mother may be trusted not to
disgrace a fellow, if left to herself.
In due time she presented herself in her Sunday dress, looking very
pretty and smart--quite creditable, in fact. The tea also, as it
appeared laid out on the sideboard--I had urged, by the way, that it
should be served in party style, and not partaken of round a table--
looked a well-found meal for the most exacting of Philosophers. I
myself reposed in state in bed, arrayed in my Eton jacket and best
collar and choker. The fire in the hearth was both cheerful and
adequate, and the knowledge that the Sanatorium maid was downstairs in
her cap and clean apron, to show the young gentlemen up, finally
relieved my anxiety.
In due time there was a ring, and a sound of the funereal tramp of
eighteen feet on the staircase, and I knew that Mrs Jones's party had
begun.
They all trooped in together, looking very grave and shy, and spick and
span in their full-dress, and evidently on their good behaviour. My
mother shook hands with each in unexceptionable style, repeating his
name as I announced it from the bed, and expressing her pleasure at
making his acquaintance.
The sight of me propped up on my pillows, somewhat pale still, and as
shy as themselves, seemed to impress them a good deal, and added to the
funereal character of the entertainment. A long pause ensued, broken
only by the entrance of the maid with the teapot, and Langrish's remark
to Trimble that it was a fine day.
Then my mother had the wit to observe that she hoped it would be equally
fine on the day of the Sports, and she was so sorry she would miss them,
as she understood Mr Sharpe's house was likely to win a good many of
the events, and of course her sympathies were entirely that way.