Mrs. Dobson, though short and portly, carries her fifty-five years with
buoyancy. She is a good-natured woman, with purple cheeks, a wide mouth,
and a small nose; one connects something indefinable in her appearance
with church on Sundays, so that one learns without surprise that she
is a strict Anglican. She lives in the neighbourhood of Cadogan Square,
and has five daughters, of whom two are married, to a well-known surgeon
and a minor canon respectively. The beauty of the family is Joan, who
plays the piano and is considered intellectual and artistic. She spent a
year at the Conservatoire in Brussels, and often uses French words in
conversation. Effie, the youngest, is an adept at games, and rather
alarms her mother by her habit of using slang expressions and the
shortness of her skirts.
Soon after the beginning of the War, Lady Whigham having discontinued her
days at home, Mrs. Dobson gave up hers, and as the other ladies in her
circle followed suit, her chief occupation was gone.
Of course, like her friend Lady Whigham, she joined several committees,
but she was rather disappointed to find the meetings less sociable than
she expected. What Mrs. Dobson likes is a friendly, chat over a cup of
tea; when you sit formally round a green table, you never seem to get to
know any one properly.
“It’s so much nicer,” she said to Maud, the eldest unmarried daughter, a
bouncing young woman of generous proportions, “to have something at your
own house. My idea is to make a pleasure of charity. The most
disagreeable things can be got through pleasantly. Now, you’re such a
sensible girl, can’t you think of something?”
Mrs. Dobson always speaks of Maud as “such a sensible girl”; spiteful
people suggest that this praise is a form of apology for the absence of
physical charm.
Maud meditated deeply. “Everybody seems to have thought of everything,
mamma, that’s the worst of it. You see, Mrs. Newt has that drawing class
for orphan boys; then there’s Mrs. Badger’s fund for giving musical
instruction to the children of soldiers and sailors, and the Parrys have
dancing classes for them.”
“That’s just it. We ought to be doing something useful of that kind. It’s
a public duty for people in our position.”
“But I think we are doing our share, mamma. What with your committee and
Effie teaching those Belgian refugee children to play hockey and me at
the canteen for ineligible shop assistants.”
“I know, my dear. Still, it would be so nice to have something here--just
to bring people together, as it were, in a cosy way.”
Before any conclusion was reached tea was brought, and just then Joan
came in from a concert at the Mandolin Hall, bringing a startling piece
of news.
“Who do you think I met at the concert, mamma?”
Joan was evidently excited. She spoke almost breathlessly, and went on
without waiting for a reply.
“Jack Leclerc is back from the Front on sick leave, and he’s been made a
captain.”
Mrs. Dobson glanced at Maud. “Really, my dear!” she said, but her voice
was not cordial.
“What else did he tell you?”
“He hardly said anything. In fact, he didn’t tell me even that. Mr. Mayo,
the manager, saw him as we were going out and I heard him call him
‘Captain’!”
“Perhaps it’s a mistake, anyhow,” suggested Maud.
“No, it isn’t. I stopped to find out--about the next concert, I mean--and
Mr. Mayo told me he had greatly distinguished himself, and I’m not a bit
surprised either.” And Joan looked at her mother and her sister with an
air of saying, “What did I tell you?”
“Well, he’s sure to come and see us and tell us all about it,” Mrs.
Dobson remarked complacently.
“I’m not so sure of that!” Joan spoke sharply.
“Nonsense, dear! he’ll be only too pleased to, especially if we ask
him--and now it’s war-time I think we might. Bygones are bygones.”
Joan sighed deeply. It was evident she meant her mother to notice it.
“Surely you’ve got over that little affair? You didn’t seem to mind at
the time. Did you now, dear?”
“What could I do with you all against me?” Joan’s face wore an expression
of aggrieved reminiscence.
“We thought it for your good, Joan. He was only a music-teacher and had
no means at all.”
“He was getting on splendidly, though. You forget that he had been
appointed conductor of a big orchestra to tour the provinces--when the
War came.”
“Yes, but the War put a complete end to that and to all his prospects. A
nice time you’d have had to wait,” said Maud.
“It’s over now, so what’s the good of talking about it? I daresay he’s
forgotten all about me long ago.” Joan sighed again and helped herself to
tea.
Half an hour later Clara Whigham called up Joan on the telephone. The
family was accustomed to these conversations, which were sometimes of
long duration. The two girls were intimate. It was through Clara that
Joan had taken piano lessons at the Royal School of Music from Jack
Leclerc.
When Joan left the room Mrs. Dobson turned to her elder daughter.
“Now, Maud, you’re such a sensible girl--what do you think about this
young man turning up? He’s sure to be after Joan again, don’t you think?”
Maud considered the question with her usual conscientious earnestness,
while her mother sat anxiously watching her.
“Well, now,” she said at length, “supposing he does?”
“What do you mean, Maud? I don’t understand.”
“Well, I mean that the War has changed everything. Look at Dora Newt. She
Wouldn’t accept that young Mr. Firning because he was only a clerk in the
bank. Now she’s engaged to him, all because he’s in the Army. Why, you
know, mamma, Clara told you herself the other day she meant to have a War
wedding.”
“I must say I was shocked that so well brought up a girl should talk so
lightly about marrying.”
“I know, mamma, but everybody’s the same now; the War makes all the
difference. And I think if Joan still wants him--after all, he’s a
captain and--”
“I think perhaps you are right, Maud. The War does make such a
difference, doesn’t it? I really think I shall encourage
it now that he has made a position for himself.” Mrs. Dobson was
interrupted by the return of Joan with another piece of news.
“Oh, mamma,” she said, more breathlessly than ever, “Lady Whigham’s going
to give a concert for poor artists, and she wants us to give one, too!
Isn’t it a heavenly idea?”
Though Mrs. Dobson knew nothing about art, and supposed that the only
reason why people ever were artists was because they were too poor to be
anything else, she heartily agreed to the suggestion, coming as it did
through Lady Whigham, and being so exactly the form of charity that she
approved.