HONOUR
Hubert meanwhile was enjoying quite another sort of artistic evening.
On first arrival, indeed, at the Club (which proved to meet in a Hotel
Coffee Room), he found himself wondering whether he might not have been
wiser in keeping to the old arrangement. The Lewisham Kit Kats, on
entry to their circle, did not promise so much intellectual reward as
G. K. Shaw and the scorned Institute. They had not the exotic charm of
their great prototype.
He had imagined, always, a band of young enthusiasts in Literature,
fresh maybe from the 'Varsity, who would be glad to hear what he had
got to say and welcome him to their--it might be--weekly dinner. But
here were no evening suits except his own, of which he grew now only
too aware. The common dress was dark suit, bow-tie, and moustache; or
with the women--for it was "mixed"--what he imagined would be blouse
and skirt. They were a frowsy-looking lot, he told himself; horribly
genial; and he more than suspected them of being Bohemian. There was a
tortured look of gladness upon every face. They bowed elaborately and
shook hands with fervour, until the whole room buzzed with brotherly
salutes. And Hubert, in his dress-suit, stood among them. One by one
the members were brought up and all of them shook hands. Not one among
the sixty who failed to be very proud to meet him. Hubert sighed for
Helena and G. K. Shaw, finding his only means of consolation in
elaborating it as a good story. He wished that he could say with truth
that they had not an _h_ among them, but this was not so. He would
have liked them better, he decided, if that had been true. They were
snobs in their own way, he felt confident, and their gentility was an
affair of effort. They were that trying set, the in-betweens....
It was with genuine relief he heard that dinner was now served, and in
they trooped: he first with his allotted woman; the rest, all
apologetic smiles, falling in anyhow behind. They settled at the
tables in a hungry silence. Hubert could see the waiters smiling at
his evening dress,--or thought he could, which was equally unpleasant.
He turned hurriedly to his neighbour, whose name he had failed to catch
in his agitation. He only remembered the friendly President murmuring
in his ear: "Her brother is a book-reviewer," as though that gave her a
niche all apart.
"How often do you have these dinners?" he decided to begin.
She aimed a toothy smile straight at him. Hubert had never noticed how
unusually fat she was before, and tried hard not to seem as though he
had observed it now. He looked doggedly at her light yellow hair, and
then looked down again when he saw that it was not real.
"I'm not a Kit Kat, you know, Mr. Hubert Brett," she answered coyly.
"They meet every Tuesday, but we ladies are only asked when there is
some special attraction, so you see you should feel very honoured! I
find it most interesting" (she laid the accent upon the third
syllable), "because you see, my brother is a book reviewer, so I
naturally take a special interest."
"Naturally," answered Hubert.
"We always say," she went on, very animated, "just for a joke, you
know, only among ourselves, that the Kit Kats have a far gayer time
when we ladies are not admitted: we see them on their best behaviour!"
"Yes?" Hubert said absently, forgetting to smile or to live up in any
way to this pet joke amongst the ladies. He was thinking. "What does
your brother review for?" he enquired as a result.
The big lady looked on him a little sternly, not at all sure whether he
had not intended to be rude. He had been very short with her
pleasantry, and now was he doubting about Harold? He ought to know the
name.
"For several books," she said with dignity, and turned to the man on
her other side, who might not be a famous author but was the Mayor's
cousin and far less stuck-up.
Hubert knew that he had failed, and his other neighbour proved
unhappily to be deaf on the near side. He spent the rest of a long and
essentially British meal in trying to appease the critic's sister. It
was all rather difficult, and he was glad now that he had told the
President he must leave early, as his wife was nervous and he had a
long way to go. He could escape a little before half-past nine and
they would be much happier without him. He wished now that he had
refused the whole thing. Still, it _was_ something to be chosen as the
guest of honour....
And, indeed, when all the meal had gone except its odour and the
President had facetiously announced that the ladies might now smoke, it
proved to be a very big thing indeed to be the Kit Kats' guest of
honour.
Even Hubert Brett's tried capacity for absorbing flattery was strained
when Mr. President, as everybody called him always, spoke minute after
minute in praise of his books: recalling their names (from a list
propped up on his cigar-tray), although he was sure Kit Kats would not
need reminding. These sterling merits which he had just enumerated had
won, he said, for Hubert Brett, if he might drop the Mr. in Art's
fellowship (applause), a big following in Lewisham, and to-night's
event, he felt confident, would render it yet bigger. Frankly, as
President, when he thought of this fixture he had felt pleased.
(Applause.) Of the distinguished novelist's affability in acceding to
their desire in spite of the many calls upon his time and recent
marriage (laughter), he intended to say nothing. (Some applause.) He
here read out, he confessed with a certain pride, the names of
distinguished authors who had so acceded formerly, and Hubert was half
disappointed yet half flattered to find himself able to agree with the
President's remark that none of them was so popular or well-known an
author as their guest to-night. "He has told me," slyly concluded the
orator, "that the trains home are bad and that his wife is sitting up
for him. (Laughter.) Those of us who are married men will
understand." (Loud laughter and a high-voiced "Shame," then female
tittering.) "I only pull aside the veil in this way so as to let you
realise why I draw my remarks short to-night and call upon our guest of
honour, Hubert Brett, for the pleasure of a few words upon the
literature of to-day, in which he plays so considerable a part."
Enormous applause greeted this conclusion and to it was added the
clapping of white gloves (for all the ladies wore them), as Hubert rose
and stood behind his chair. Even the lady whose brother reviewed,
possibly melted by hearing that her neighbour was a genius to whom much
always is forgiven, smacked him playfully on the back as he got up to
speak.
He was not a good speaker and prudently had written out the headings of
his speech and a few epigrams that might pass as impromptu after wine.
There had not, unluckily, been any wine and all the early epigrams
passed quite unnoticed. A speech devised for 'Varsity enthusiasts was
not of the true Kit Kat bouquet.
Hubert had so far got the instincts of an orator that he could realise
this fact. The chilly aspect of his listeners told him that he had not
gripped them; a swift ranging back to the last speech supplied the
cause. He was not broad enough in his effects. They did not care for
theories on writing; they wanted something personal. They wanted
reminiscences. Their welcome, when he first got up, had shown they
took him seriously. Nobody of his own set was there! What harm?
Hubert Brett's speech (for no one ever used the Mr. of him afterwards)
is still remembered as the most enjoyable of all the Kit Kats ever
heard. Such interesting people had he met and known, known well; such
vivid lights he threw upon the full life of a famous literary man.
No single member who got up to join in the discussion afterwards but
started with an eulogy of their guest's work and speech.
Hubert was very pleased. He had warmed to the Kit Kat manner. He
should not tell it as a comic story; it would not be fair. After all,
perhaps they were not an artistic set, but then not everybody could
belong to that, and they were very genial. You only had to get to know
them. They were the Public anyhow, the class for whom one wrote, and
possibly they might have influence, some few of them. This woman next
door, now so affable, had got a brother who reviewed for several
papers. All of this must help. It was absurd to be exclusive when one
came to Art. He looked upon this evening as one of the most
encouraging in his whole life. Wouldn't Helena be pleased to hear it
all?
And that reminded him.
With a hot shame he drew out his watch.
His speech had been long and one of many after a full dinner. It was
very nearly half-past ten and a long journey home....
Full of guilt, he pulled himself together, to make his excuses. There
was a gap now. No one seemed to volunteer as speaker. He----
But Mr. President was on his feet. He must not interrupt.
"Gentlemen--_and_ Ladies!" said the President amid appreciative
laughter, "all the volunteers now being exhausted, I shall proceed in
accordance with Kit Kat tradition to call out the reserve and ask them
to speak, whether they wish it or no. And the first gentleman I think
we all feel we should like to hear speak is our old valued friend and
excellent critic, Mr. Henry Jenks."
This met with such general applause that Hubert felt it would be
ridiculous to get up now. It also would be rude and pointed. Besides,
"critic"--did he mean professional? It might be silly to offend him.
After all, these people who were asked to speak would surely be better,
their estimate of his work more worth while, than those who simply
wanted to hear their own voice?
Helena wouldn't mind. She was so easy-going, bless her. She would
love to hear.
To the flattered relief of a vigilant President, who had observed the
guest of honour's restless movement, Hubert settled once more in his
chair.
He would stay ... just a little.