I
Talking of dogs, no one will deny that dogs make the best, the dearest,
and the most faithful companions in the world. No one will deny that
even very small dogs have very large hearts. No one will deny that human
beings are as but dirt beside dogs, even very small dogs. No one will
deny that all dogs, large or small, are more acceptable to the Lord than
foxes, rats or Dagoes. That is, if the Lord is a gentleman. No one can
deny that. No one, anyhow, dares deny that. Let us be quite candid. A
man who does not glory in the companionship of dogs is no fit mate for
any woman. That is what Valerest said. A woman who glories in nothing
else but the companionship of a dratted little beast with two unblinking
black eyes is certainly no fit mate for any man. That is what Valentine
thought.
Valentine and Valerest were sat at dinner. Valerest was the name of
Valentine’s wife, and she was a nice girl. A pretty maid waited on them.
Valentine and Valerest were silent. The pretty maid left them.
Valerest said: “Any man who does not like dogs is no fit mate for a
woman.”
Valentine thought as above.
“I really don’t see,” said Valerest bitterly, “why you are so sulky this
evening.”
Sulky! Ye gods and little fishes, to be moved by a profound and
sorrowful anger--and to be called ‘sulky’! O God of words and phrases, O
Arbiter of tempers and distempers, to sit in silent dignity and
resignation--and to be called ‘sulky’! Verily, what a petty thing one
word can make of martyrdom! Wherefore Valentine raised his voice and
said: “I am not sulky.”
“Well,” said Valerest, “you needn’t shout.”
Valentine said: “I never shout.”
A situation was thus created. The pretty maid came in with the sweet in
the middle of it. Valentine and Valerest were silent. Mr. Tuppy was not.
Mr. Tuppy said “Yap!” Mr. Tuppy lay on a mouldy old cushion, and the
mouldy old cushion lay on a chair, and the chair was beside Valerest.
Dear Mr. Tuppy, sweet Mr. Tuppy! Tuppy was a Chinaman, Tuppy was a dog.
“The pretty darling, the mother’s tiny tot!” sighed Valerest. “And does
he want his dinner then, the mother’s rabbit?”
“Yap!” said Mr. Tuppy.
“Isn’t he a darling!” cried Valerest.
“Charming,” said Valentine.
“Well,” said Valerest, “you aren’t very gay to-night, I do think!”
It could be asked, need Valerest have said that? Again, it could be
asked, need Valerest have said that brightly? Valentine, at that moment,
appeared to be engaged in spearing a boiled cherry, which formed part of
a fruit-salad. It would not appear, therefore, that Valentine was
engaged on anything very important. Indeed, there will not be wanting
those to say that Valentine’s attention might well have been diverted to
something more “worth while” (an American phrase meaning money) than
even the most notable fruit-salad. They will be wrong. For there is a
time in everyone’s life when even the most homely fruit-salad, even one
unspiced with Kirsch or liqueur, can be of such moment that everything
else must, for that time, go by the board. Therefore it must at once be
apparent to even the most impatient reader that _The Romance in Old
Brandy_ must be delayed for at least another paragraph while impartial
enquiry is made into the fruit-salad of Valentine Vernon Chambers.
Ever since he was so high Valentine would always eat a fruit-salad
according to certain laws of precedence. Not for worlds would he have
admitted it, but that is how it was. He liked the chunks of pineapple
best, so he kept the chunks of pineapple to the last. Strawberries he
liked next best, if they weren’t too sloppy, so they came one but last.
As for grapes in a fruit salad, they are slippery and sour, and
Valentine thought it was no fit place for them. After strawberries, he
was partial to cherries. While first of all he would demolish the
inevitable bits of banana. Cream he never took with a fruit-salad.
It will therefore be seen that, as he was then only at the beginning of
the cherry stratum, the fruit-salad future of Valentine Vernon Chambers
was one of exceptional promise. But it was not to be. Even as Valerest
spoke, brightly, he couldn’t help but cast one furtive look at the
chunks of pineapple. Nor were the strawberries sloppy. But queer depths
were moving in him that evening. From the chunks of pineapple he looked
across the table at his wife, and Valerest saw that his blue eyes were
dark, and she was afraid, but did she look afraid? Valerest, Oh,
Valerest!
“Yap!” said Mr. Tuppy.
“There, there!” said Valerest, and she kissed Mr. Tuppy, and Mr. Tuppy
loved it.
“By Heaven, that dog!” snapped Valentine.
Valerest said: “That’s it! Vent your bad-temper on poor little Mr.
Tuppy!”
Valentine looked at Valerest.
“I see,” said Valentine quietly. Very quietly. “Oh, I see!”
And worse. Much worse. Very quietly.
“I suppose you think,” said Valerest, “that because I’m your wife you
can say anything you like to me. You’re wrong.”
“I think,” said Valentine, “that because you’re my wife you ought to
behave like my wife. And I’m right.”
And then he left the room. And then he left the house. And then the
house was very still.
Valerest, sitting very straight in her chair, heard the front-door slam.
She listened. Through the open window behind her came the sound of manly
footsteps marching away down South Street. She listened. Away the
footsteps marched, away. Then a taxi screamed, and the incident of the
manly footsteps was closed forever.
“Well, that’s that!” said Valerest.
“Yap!” said Mr. Tuppy.
“Mother’s rabbit!” said Valerest absently.
“Mr. Tuppy,” said Valerest suddenly, “this can’t go on. You know, this
can’t go on.”
“Yap!” said Mr. Tuppy.
“I’m not a chattel,” said Valerest. “To be used just as a man likes. I
will not be a chattel.”
The pretty maid came in.
Valerest said: “Come along, Mr. Tuppy. I’ve got a headache. Bed.”