Mr. Palfrey read his poems in a curious sing-song fashion, beating time
with his right hand as he did so. He seemed to be performing physical
exercises rather than modulating his own accents, and on two occasions
his gesture was longer than his poem. He read "Life" very slowly and
very deliberately, saying the word "cawing" in a high-pitched tone, and
prolonging it until his breath was exhausted. He recited a dozen of
these poems, obtaining his greatest effect with, the last of them,
which was entitled, "The Sea":
Immense, incalculable waste,
The dribblings from a giant's beard....
"Isn't it wonderful?" said an ecstatic girl sitting next to John.
"No," he replied.
She looked at him interrogatively, and he added, very aggressively, "I
think it's twaddle!"
"Oh, _do_ you?" she exclaimed as if she could scarcely believe her
ears.
"I do," said John.
He would have said more, but that Mr. Haverstock was on his feet
proposing that they should now have supper and take the more important
business of the evening afterwards, namely, the discussion of this
great problem of Marriage. They had all been deeply moved by Mr.
Palfrey's beautiful verses and would no doubt like an opportunity of
discussing them in an informal manner....
Mrs. Haverstock led John to a girl who was sitting at the back of the
room, and introduced him to her. Miss Bushe was the daughter of the
editor of the _Daily Groan_, and Mrs. Haverstock desired that John
would take her into supper.
"Mr. MacDermott is Irish--he has only just arrived from Ireland," Mrs.
Haverstock said to Miss Bushe by way of explanation or possibly as a
means of providing them with conversation.
"I've always wanted to go to Ireland," said Miss Bushe, taking his arm
and allowing him to lead her to the dining-room.
"Well, why don't you go?" he asked.
All evening people had been telling him that they had always wanted to
go to Ireland, but had somehow omitted to do so.
"Well, mother likes Bournemouth," Miss Bushe replied, "and so we always
go there. She says that she knows there'll be a bathroom at
Bournemouth, and plenty of hot water and she can't bear the thought of
going to some place where hot water isn't laid on. I suppose I shall go
to Ireland some day!"
"There's plenty of hot water in Ireland," said John.
Miss Bushe giggled. "You're so satirical," she said.
"Satirical?" he exclaimed.
"Yes. About the hot water in Ireland!"
He gazed blankly at her. "I don't understand you," he replied. "I meant
just what I said. You can get hot water in Ireland as easily as you can
in England. Some people have it laid on in pipes, and other people have
to boil it on the fire; but you can get it all right!"
There was a look of disappointment on Miss Bushe's face. "I thought you
were making a reference to politics," she said.
John stared at her. Then he turned away. "Will I get you something to
eat?" he murmured as he did so. He had observed the other men gallantly
waiting upon the ladies.
"Oh, thank you," she said. She glanced towards the table. "I wonder if
that trifle has got anything intoxicating in it?" she added.
"I daresay," he answered. "Trifles usually have drink of some sort in
them!"
"I couldn't take it if it has anything intoxicating in it," she
burbled.
"Why not?" John demanded. "It'll do you no harm!"
"Oh, I couldn't. I simply couldn't if it has anything intoxicating in
it. We're very strict about intoxicants. They do so much harm!"
John did not know what to do or say next. She still stared longingly at
the trifle, and it was clear that she would greatly like to eat some of
it.
"Well?" he said vaguely.
"I wonder," she replied, "whether you'd mind tasting it first, just to
see whether it has anything intoxicating in it?"
John thought that this was a strange sort of young woman to take into
supper, but he did as she bid him. He took a large portion of the
trifle on to a plate and tasted it. She gazed at him in a very anxious
manner.
"It has," he said, "and it's lovely!"
The light went out of her eyes. "Then I think I'll just have some
blanc-mange," she said.
"There's nothing intoxicating in that," he replied, going to get it for
her.
"Do you know," she murmured when he had returned and she was eating the
blanc-mange, "I almost wish you had said there was nothing intoxicating
in the trifle!..."
"That would have been a lie," John interrupted.
"Yes, but!... Oh, well, this blanc-mange is quite nice!"
John tempted, her. "Taste the trifle anyway," he said.
"Oh, no," she replied, shrinking back. "I couldn't. We're very
strict!..."