"Another!" said George, flinging down the card. "I have had just about
ENOUGH OF IT!" He spoke vehemently, with an intonation that I have tried
to convey by the employment of capitals. It was obvious that he was
deeply moved.
"Do you mind explaining?" I asked.
"It explains itself," he answered disgustedly, referring to the card. I
picked it up. It was a printed communication, in which somebody, whose
name I forget, requested the pleasure of George's presence at the
marriage of his daughter Something to Mr. Somebodyelse.
I read it aloud. "What's wrong with that?" I asked. "Were you in love
with her yourself?"
"I was not," said George shortly. "To the best of my knowledge I have
never even set eyes on the wretched girl, and never want to. My
implication in the affair rests solely on my having once been at school
with the bridegroom."
"Then what more touching than that he should desire the presence of his
old comrade at such a crisis?"
"_Presence!_" began George bitterly. "If they'd said----"
I stopped him. "I know the pun," I said quickly, "and am no longer
capable of being amused at it. So that is the ground of your complaint.
I must say, George, that I regard this as a little mean of you."
"You may," answered George. "That shows you don't realise the facts. If
you were in my position you wouldn't talk like that. Why, look at it,"
he went on, warming to his subject, "here am I, a bachelor nearing
fifty, with an income, secure certainly, but by no means lavish; and
what do we find? Scarcely a day goes by without my receiving some more
or less veiled demand from persons without a shadow of claim!
"Relatives," pursued George, "one, of course, expects. I have myself
five elder sisters, all of them comfortably married with my assistance.
Pianos or dinner-sets or whatever it happened to be," explained George.
"I make no complaint there. Not even though in these cases the initial
outlay was only the beginning. I am by now seventeen times an uncle. A
pleasant position at first, but repetition stales it. The expense of
that alone is becoming appalling. Why on earth didn't Henry VIII. or
somebody institute a bounty for uncles?"
"It can't be so bad as all that."
"It would not be, if, as I say, the matter was kept within one's own
family. But you see it isn't. I have now reached that time of life in
which the rush of weddings appears to be heaviest. Everybody I ever met
seems to be doing it, and using the fact as an excuse for blackmail. I
am a poor man, and I have had enough of it!"
I made a sympathetic noise. As a matter of fact, George's friends agree
that he is very comfortably off, but I let that pass. "What are you
going to do about it?" I asked.
"This," answered George unexpectedly. He opened his pocket-book and
produced a half-sheet of note-paper. "This is going in _The Morning
Post_ to-morrow. I wrote it some time ago, but the hour has now come
when I must make a stand and endeavour to get a little of my own back.
So in she goes!"
I took the paper and read as follows: "1839-1914. Mr. George Pennywise,
of 1096, Upper Brook Street, having remained a bachelor during
twenty-five years of eligibility, invites his numerous friends to join
with him in celebrating his silver celibacy."
"The idea is not original," I said coldly, "but I am interested to know
why you should select this particular moment rather than any other. What
happened in '89?"
George looked faintly conscious. "Nothing," he answered. "That's just
the point. It's what might have happened. I think you've never heard me
speak of a girl called Emeline? Anyhow, I was rather struck at that
time; we were staying in the same house that autumn, and I believe
everybody expected me to propose. Only, somehow I didn't. But it was the
closest shave I've ever had, and, as that was just twenty-five years
ago, I began counting from then."
"Did Miss--er Emeline share the general expectation?"
"To be candid, I rather fancy she did. Several of her set were quite
nasty about it afterwards, though it was obviously no business of
theirs. She married somebody else later on, and lives in Ireland."
George sighed reflectively.
As it was apparent that he would shortly become sentimental, a condition
for which he is unfitted, I took my leave. "You're not really going to
put that nonsense in the paper?" I asked.
"I am," said George, recovering abruptly. "If there is any way in which
a put-upon bachelor can get equal with the world, I mean to take it. I
regard it as a public duty. Look in again next week, and you'll see the
result."
Curiosity brought me on my next visit to George with more anticipation
than usual. The advertisement had duly appeared. But my inquiries found
him oddly reticent.
"Look here, George," I said at length, "what did that paragraph
produce?"
"I got stacks of letters, mostly humorous, that will require answering."
"No presents?"
"One," answered George reluctantly, "from Emeline."
This was intriguing. George's manner with regard to it was discouraging,
not to say morose. But I am not easily put off.
"What sort of present?" I persisted.
"Oh, handsome enough. A silver frame, quite good in its way, with a
family group of herself and her husband and three kids inside it. I
shall take that out."
"Any inscription?"
The moment I had said it I saw that I had found the trouble.
"Only three words," answered George evasively. He hesitated. "But there,
Emeline never did know how to express herself."
"George," I demanded sternly, "what were those three words?"
"_A Thank Offering_," said George.
* * * * *