The dingy little room was stuffy and crowded to its utmost limit, and
Mr. Polly's skies were dark with the sense of irreparable acts.
Everybody seemed noisy and greedy and doing foolish things. Miriam,
still in that unbecoming hat--for presently they had to start off to
the station together--sat just beyond Mrs. Punt and her son, doing her
share in the hospitalities, and ever and again glancing at him with a
deliberately encouraging smile. Once she leant over the back of the
chair to him and whispered cheeringly: "Soon be together now." Next to
her sat Johnson, profoundly silent, and then Annie, talking vigorously
to a friend. Uncle Pentstemon was eating voraciously opposite, but
with a kindling eye for Annie. Mrs. Larkins sat next to Mr. Voules.
She was unable to eat a mouthful, she declared, it would choke her,
but ever and again Mr. Voules wooed her to swallow a little drop of
liquid refreshment.
There seemed a lot of rice upon everybody, in their hats and hair and
the folds of their garments.
Presently Mr. Voules was hammering the table for the fourth time in
the interests of the Best Man....
All feasts come to an end at last, and the breakup of things was
precipitated by alarming symptoms on the part of Master Punt. He was
taken out hastily after a whispered consultation, and since he had got
into the corner between the fireplace and the cupboard, that meant
everyone moving to make way for him. Johnson took the opportunity to
say, "Well--so long," to anyone who might be listening, and disappear.
Mr. Polly found himself smoking a cigarette and walking up and down
outside in the company of Uncle Pentstemon, while Mr. Voules replaced
bottles in hampers and prepared for departure, and the womenkind of
the party crowded upstairs with the bride. Mr. Polly felt taciturn,
but the events of the day had stirred the mind of Uncle Pentstemon to
speech. And so he spoke, discursively and disconnectedly, a little
heedless of his listener as wise old men will.
"They do say," said Uncle Pentstemon, "one funeral makes many. This
time it's a wedding. But it's all very much of a muchness," said Uncle
Pentstemon....
"'Am _do_ get in my teeth nowadays," said Uncle Pentstemon, "I can't
understand it. 'Tisn't like there was nubbicks or strings or such in
'am. It's a plain food.
"That's better," he said at last.
"You _got_ to get married," said Uncle Pentstemon. "Some has. Some
hain't. I done it long before I was your age. It hain't for me to
blame you. You can't 'elp being the marrying sort any more than me.
It's nat'ral-like poaching or drinking or wind on the stummik. You
can't 'elp it and there you are! As for the good of it, there ain't no
particular good in it as I can see. It's a toss up. The hotter come,
the sooner cold, but they all gets tired of it sooner or later.... I
hain't no grounds to complain. Two I've 'ad and berried, and might
'_ave_ '_ad_ a third, and never no worrit with kids--never....
"You done well not to '_ave_ the big gal. I will say that for ye.
She's a gad-about grinny, she is, if ever was. A gad-about grinny.
Mucked up my mushroom bed to rights, she did, and I 'aven't forgot it.
Got the feet of a centipede, she 'as--ll over everything and neither
with your leave nor by your leave. Like a stray 'en in a pea patch.
Cluck! cluck! Trying to laugh it off. _I_ laughed 'er off, I did.
Dratted lumpin baggage!..."
For a while he mused malevolently upon Annie, and routed out a
reluctant crumb from some coy sitting-out place in his tooth.
"Wimmin's a toss up," said Uncle Pentstemon. "Prize packets they are,
and you can't tell what's in 'em till you took 'em 'ome and undone
'em. Never was a bachelor married yet that didn't buy a pig in a poke.
Never. Marriage seems to change the very natures in 'em through and
through. You can't tell what they won't turn into--nohow.
"I seen the nicest girls go wrong," said Uncle Pentstemon, and added
with unusual thoughtfulness, "Not that I mean _you_ got one of that
sort."
He sent another crumb on to its long home with a sucking, encouraging
noise.
"The _wust_ sort's the grizzler," Uncle Pentstemon resumed. "If ever
I'd 'ad a grizzler I'd up and 'it 'er on the 'ed with sumpthin' pretty
quick. I don't think I could abide a grizzler," said Uncle Pentstemon.
"I'd liefer '_ave_ a lump-about like that other gal. I would indeed. I
lay I'd make 'er stop laughing after a bit for all 'er airs. And mind
where her clumsy great feet went....
"A man's got to tackle 'em, whatever they be," said Uncle Pentstemon,
summing up the shrewd observation of an old-world life time. "Good or
bad," said Uncle Pentstemon raising his voice fearlessly, "a man's got
to tackle 'em."