BASIL AT VIOLETTE
1
June went by, and the war went on, and the Russians were driven back in
Galicia, and the Germans took Lemberg, and trenches were lost and won in
France, and there was fighting round Ypres, and Basil Doye had the
middle finger of his right hand cut off, and there was some glorious
weather, and Zeppelin raids in the eastern counties, and it was warm and
stuffy in London, and Mrs. Sandomir wrote to Alix from the United States
that more than ever now, since their darling Paul was added to the toll
of wasted lives, war must not occur again.
July went by, and the war went on, and trenches were lost and won, and
there was fighting round Ypres, and a German success at Hooge, and the
Russians were driven back in Galicia, and Basil Doye left hospital and
went with his mother to Devonshire, and there were Zeppelin raids in the
eastern counties, and the summer term at the art school ended, and Alix
went away from Clapton to Wood End, and her mother wrote that American
women were splendid to work with, and that it was supremely important
that the States should remain neutral, and that there were many hitches
in the way of arbitration, but some hope.
August went by, and the war went on, and Warsaw was taken, and the
National Register, and trenches were lost and won, and there was
fighting round Ypres, and a British success at Hooge and in Gallipoli,
and Zeppelin raids on the eastern counties, and Nicholas and Alix went
away together for a holiday to a village in Munster where the only
newspaper which appeared with regularity was the _Ballydehob Weekly
Despatch_, and Violette was shut up, and Mrs. Frampton stayed with Aunt
Nellie and Kate and Evie with friends, and Mrs. Sandomir wrote from
Sweden that the Swedes were promising but apathetic, and their
government shy.
September went by, and the war went on, and the Russians rallied and
retreated and rallied in Galicia, and a great allied advance in France
began and ended, and the hospitals filled up, and there were Zeppelin
raids on the eastern counties, and Mrs. Frampton and Kate and Evie came
back to Violette, and the art school opened, and Alix came back to
Violette, and the Doyes came back to town, and Mrs. Sandomir wrote from
Sermaize-le-Bains, where she was staying a little while again with the
Friends and helping to reconstruct, that it was striking how amenable to
reason neutral and even belligerent governments were, if one talked to
them reasonably. Even Ferdinand, though he had his faults....
October began, and the war went on, and Bulgaria massed on the Serbian
frontier, and Russia sent her an ultimatum, and the Germans retook the
Hohenzollern Redoubt, and the hospitals got fuller, and the curious
affair of Salonika began, and Terry Orme came home on leave, and Basil
Doye interviewed the Medical board, was told he could not rejoin yet,
visited Cox's, and, coming out of it, met Alix going up to the Strand.
2
Alix saw him first; he looked listless and pale and bored and rather
cross, as he had done last time she saw him, a week ago. Basil was
finding life something of a bore just now, and small things jarred. It
was a nuisance, since he was on this ridiculous fighting business, not
to be allowed to go and fight. There might be something doing any moment
out there, and he not in it. His hand was really nearly all right now.
And anyhow, it wasn't much fun in town, as he couldn't paint, and nearly
every one was away.
His eyes followed a girl who passed with her officer brother. He would
have liked a healthy, pretty, jolly sort of girl like that to go about
with ... some girl with poise, and tone, and sanity, and no nerves, who
never bothered about the war or anything. A placid, indifferent, healthy
sort of girl, with all her fingers on and nothing the matter anywhere.
He was sick of hurt and damaged bodies and minds; his artistic instinct
and his natural vitality craved, in reaction, for the beautiful and the
whole and the healthy....
Looking up, he saw Alix standing at the corner of the Strand, leaning on
her ivory-topped stick and looking at him. She looked pale and thin and
frail and pretty in her blue coat and skirt and white collar. (The
Sandomirs never wore mourning.) He went up to her, a smile lifting his
brows.
'Good. I was just feeling bored. Let's come and have tea.'
Alix wasn't really altogether what he wanted. She was too nervy. Some
nerve in him which had been badly jarred by the long ugliness of those
months in France winced from contact with nervous people. Besides, he
suspected her of feeling the same shrinking from him: she so hated the
war and all its products. However, they had always amused each other;
she was clever, and nice to look at; he remembered vaguely that he had
been a little in love with her once, before the war. If the war hadn't
come just then, he might have become a great deal in love with her.
Before the war one had wanted a rather different sort of person, of
course, from now; more of a companion, to discuss things with; more of a
stimulant, perhaps, and less of a rest. He remembered that they had
discussed painting a great deal; he didn't want to discuss painting now,
since he had lost his finger. He didn't particularly want cleverness
either, since trench life, with its battery on the brain of sounds and
sights, had made him stupid....
However, he said, 'Let's come and have tea,' and she answered, 'Very
well, let's,' and they turned into something in the Strand called the
Petrograd Tea Rooms.
'I suppose one mustn't take milk in it here,' said Alix vaguely. She
looked him over critically as they sat down, and said, 'You don't _look_
much use yet.'
'So I am told. They say I shall probably have at least a month's more
leave.... Well, I don't much care.... There's a rumour my battalion may
be sent to Serbia soon. I met a man on leave to-day, and he says that's
the latest canard. I rather hope it's true. It will be a change, anyhow,
and there'll be something doing out there. Besides, we may as well see
the world thoroughly on this show, while we are about it. We shall never
have such a chance again, I suppose. It's like a Cook's tour gratis.
France, Flanders, Egypt, Gallipoli, Serbia, Greece.... I may see them
all yet. This war has its humours, I'll say that for it. A bizarre war
indeed, as some titled lunatic woman driving a motor ambulance round
Ypres kept remarking to us all. 'Dear me, what a very bizarre war!' It
sounded as if she had experienced so many, and as if they were mostly so
normal and conventional and flat.'
'Bizarre.' Alix turned the word over. 'Yes, I suppose that is really
what it is.... It's the wrong shape; it fits in with nothing; it's
mad.... My cousin Emily says it's a righteous war, though of course war
is very wicked. Righteous of us and wicked of the Germans, I suppose she
means. And Kate says it was sent us, for getting drunk and not going to
church enough. I don't know how she knows. Do you meet people who talk
like that?'
'I chiefly meet people who ask me why I'm not taking part in it. There
was one to-day, in Trafalgar Square. She told me I ought to be in khaki.
I said I supposed I ought, properly speaking, but that I was waiting to
be fetched. She said it was young fellows like me who disgraced Britain
before the eyes of Europe, and that I wouldn't like being fetched,
because then I should have to wear C for Coward on my tunic. I said I
should rather enjoy that, and we parted pleasantly.'
'The wide ones are two and eleven three, and the narrow ones one and
nine. I like B. & H.'s better than Evans', myself.'
The voice was Evie's; she was entering the Petrograd Tea Rooms with
young Mrs. Vinney. She saw Alix, nodded, and said 'Hullo.' It was Basil
who made room for them at the table with him and Alix (the tea shop was
crowded). He had met Evie once before.
'Oh, thanks muchly. Don't you mind?' Evie was apologetic, thinking two
was company. Mrs. Vinney was introduced to Basil, settled herself in her
dainty fluffiness, emphasised by her feather boa, and ordered crumpets
for herself and Evie.
'Quite a nice little place, don't you think so, Miss Sandomir? More
_recherche_ than an A.B.C. or one of those. I often come here....
_What's_ that boy shouting? The Germans take something or other
redoubt.... Fancy! How it does go on, doesn't it?'
Alix said it did.
'Quite makes one feel,' said Mrs. Vinney, 'that one _oughtn't_ to be
sitting snug and comfortable having crumpets, doesn't it? You know what
I mean; it's just a feeling one has, no sense in it. One oughtn't to
give in to it, _I_ don't think; Vin says so too. What's the use, he
says, of brooding, when it helps nobody, and what we've got to do is to
keep cheery at home and keep things going. I must say I quite agree with
him.'
'Rather, so do I,' said Basil.
'But of course it all makes one think, doesn't it?' she resumed. 'Makes
life seem more _solemn_--do you know what I mean? And all the poor young
fellows who never come home again. I'm thankful none of my people or
close friends are gone. Mother simply wouldn't let my brother go; she
says we've always been a peace-loving family and she's not going to
renounce her principles now. Percy doesn't really want to; it was only a
passing fancy because some friends of his went. Vin says, leave war to
those that want war; he doesn't, and he's not going to mix up in it, and
I must say I think he's right.'
'Quite,' agreed Basil.
'All this waste of life and money just because the Germans want a war!
Why should we _pander_ to them, that's what he says. _Let_ them want.
He's no Prussian Junker, shouting out for blood. There's too many of
them in this country, he says, and that's what makes war possible. He's
all for disarmament, you know, and I must say I think he's right. If no
one had any guns or ships, no one could fight, could they?'
Evie agreed that they couldn't, forgetting knives and fists and printed
words and naked savages and all the gunless hosts of the ancient world.
Violette thought always gaped with these large omissions; it was like a
loose piece of knitting, stretched to cover spaces too large for it and
yawning into holes.
'Mr. Doye's been fighting, you know,' Evie explained, since Mrs. Vinney
was obviously taking him for one who left war to those that wanted war.
'He's wounded.'
'Oh, is that so?' Mrs. Vinney regarded Mr. Doye with new interest.
'Well, I must say one can't help _admiring_ the men that go and fight
for their country, though one should allow liberty to all.... I hope
you're going on favourably, Mr. Doye.'
'Very, thanks very much.'
'Well, we must be trotting, Evie, if we're going to Oxford Street before
we go home.... Check, if you please.... They're always so slow, aren't
they, at these places. Good-bye, Miss Sandomir; good-bye, Mr. Doye, and
I'm sure I hope you'll get quite all right soon.'
Basil stood aside to let them out, and looked after them for a moment as
they went.
3
He sat down with a grin.
'Makes life more _solemn_--do you know what I mean?... What a cheery
little specimen.... I say, I'd like to draw Miss Tucker; such good
face-lines. That clear chin, and the nice wide space between the eyes.'
He drew it on the tablecloth with his left hand and the handle of his
teaspoon.
'She's ripping to draw,' Alix agreed. 'I often do her. And the colour's
gorgeous, too--that pink on brown. I've never got it right yet.'
'I should think she's fun to live with,' suggested Basil. 'She looks as
if she enjoyed things so much.'
'Yes, she has a pretty good time as a rule.'
'You know,' said Basil, thinking it out, 'being out there, and seeing
people smashed to bits all about the place, and getting smashed oneself,
makes one long for people like that, sane and healthy and with nothing
the matter with their bodies or minds. It gets to seem about the only
thing that matters, after a time.'
'I suppose it would.'
'Now a person like that, who looks like some sort of wood goddess--(I'd
awfully like to paint her as a dryad)--and looks as if she'd never had a
day's illness or a bad night in her life, is so--so _restful_. So alive
and yet so calm. No nerves anywhere, I should think.... Being out there
plays the dickens with people's nerves, you know. Not every one's, of
course; there are plenty of cheery souls who come through unmoved; but
you'd be surprised at the jolly, self-possessed sportsmen who go to
pieces more or less--all degrees of it, of course. Some don't know it
themselves; you can often only see it by the way their eyes look at you
while they're talking, or the way their hand twitches when they light
their cigarette....' Alix remembered John Orme's eyes and hands. 'They
dream a bit, too,' Basil went on, and his own eyes were fixed and queer
as he talked, and his brows twitched a little. 'Talk in their sleep, you
know, or walk.... It's funny.... I've censored letters which end "Hope
this finds you the same as it leaves me, _i.e._ in the pink," from chaps
who have to be watched lest they put a bullet into themselves from sheer
nerves. You'll see a man shouting and laughing at a sing-song, then
sitting and crying by himself afterwards.... Oh, those are extreme
cases, of course, but lots are touched one way or another.... I'm sorry
for the next generation; they'll stand a chance of being a precious
neurotic lot, the children of the fighting men.... It's up to every one
at home to keep as sane and unnervy as they can manage, I fancy, or the
whole world may become a lunatic asylum.... I say, what are you going to
do now?'
'Buy some chalks. Then go home.'
'Violette? I'll see you home, may I?'
4
They went to the chalk shop, then to the Clapton bus. The evening wind
was like cool hands stroking their faces. It was half-past six. The
streets were barbarically dark.
'One would think,' said Basil, peering through the darkness at the
ugliness, 'that in Kingsland Road Zepps might be allowed to do their
worst.'
'On Spring Hill too, perhaps,' Alix said. Slums and the screaming of the
disreputable poor: villas and the precise speech and incomparably
muddled thinking of the respectable genteel: which could best be spared?
But Basil said, 'Oh, Spring Hill. Spring Hill is full of joy and
dryads.'
'Kate is afraid a very common type of person is coming to live there.
We're getting nervous about it at Violette. We're very particular, you
know.'
Alix, with the instinct of a cad, was laughing at Violette, wanting him
to laugh with her.
'Sure to be,' he returned; and Alix realised blankly that he might laugh
at Violette to her heart's content and his attitude towards dryads and
Evie Tucker's face-lines would remain unaltered by his mockery.
With a revulsion towards breeding, she said, 'They're most awfully
kind.... Here's where I get off.'
He got off too, and they walked down Upper Clapton Road.
5
Some one came behind them, walking quickly, came up with them, slowed,
and looked.
'Here we are again,' said Evie, in her clear gay voice. 'You're coming
in to see us, Mr. Doye, I hope?'
Basil glanced from Alix to Evie. They were passing under a dim lamp,
which for a moment threw Evie's startling prettiness in lit relief
against the night. Extreme prettiness is not such a common thing that
one can afford to miss chances of beholding it.
Basil said, 'Well, may I?'
Evie returned, 'Rather. Stop to supper.'
'I can't do that, thanks very much. But I'll come in for a moment, if I
may.'
As they entered Violette's tiny hall, the clock struck seven. They went
into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Frampton and Kate sat knitting. It was
stiff and prim and tidy, and rather stuffy, and watched from the wall by
the monstrous Eye.
'Here's Mr. Doye, mother,' said Evie. 'He saw Alix home.'
Mr. Doye was introduced to Kate. Mrs. Frampton said how kind it was of
him to see Alix home.
'Particularly with the streets black like they are now. Have we a
_right_ to expect to be preserved if we go against all common-sense like
that?'
'I never do,' said Basil, meaning he never expected to be preserved, but
Mrs. Frampton took it that he never went against common-sense.
'Well, I'm sure I go out after dark as little as I can; but the girls
have to, coming back from work, and it makes me worry for them.... Now
you sit in that easy-chair, Mr. Doye, and make yourself comfortable, and
rest your hand. It's going on well, I hope? You'll stop and have some
supper, of course? We have it at half-past seven, so it won't keep you
long.'
Basil said he wouldn't, because he was dining somewhere at eight.
They talked of the news. Mrs. Frampton said it seemed to get worse each
day. She had been reading in the paper that Bulgaria was just coming in.
Was that really so? Mrs. Frampton was of those who inquire of their male
acquaintances and relatives on these and kindred subjects, and believe
the answers, more particularly when the males are soldiers. Basil Doye,
used to his mother, who told him things and never believed a word he
said, because, as she remarked, he was so much younger, found this
gratifying, and said it was really so. Mrs. Frampton said dear me, it
seemed as if all the world would have to come in in time, and what about
poor Serbia, could she be saved? Basil, wanting to leave the state of
Europe and ask Evie if she had seen any plays lately, said casually that
Serbia certainly seemed to stand a pretty good chance of being done in.
'And then, I suppose,' said Mrs. Frampton, 'we shall have the poor
Serbian refugees fleeing to us for safety, like the Belgians. I'm sure
we shall all welcome them, the poor mothers with their little children.
But it will be awkward to know where to put them or what to do with
them. They've got those two houses at the corner of the Common full of
Belgians now. I wonder if the Belgians and the Serbs would get on well
together in the same houses. They say the poor Serbs are very wild
people indeed, with such strange habits. Do you think we shall all be
asked to take them as servants?'
'Sure to be,' said Basil, his eyes on Evie. Evie sat doing nothing at
all, healthy, lovely, amused, splendidly alive. The vigorous young
bodily life of her called to Basil's own, re-animating it. Alix sat by
her, all alive too, but weak-bodied, lame, frail-nerved, with no
balance. Kate knitted, and was different.
'It will be quite a problem, won't it?' said Mrs. Frampton. 'My maid
tells me girls can't get enough places now, people all take Belgians
instead.'
'They say the Belgian girls make very rough servants. We know those who
have them,' said Kate, who had the Violette knack of switching off from
the general to the personal. To Violette there were no labour problems,
only good servants and bad, no Belgian or Balkan problem, only
individual Belgians and Serbs (poor things, with their little children
and strange habits). They had the personal touch, which makes England
what it is.
Mrs. Frampton wanted to know next, 'And I suppose we shall be having
conscription very soon now, Mr. Doye, shall we?'
'Lord Northcliffe says so, doesn't he?' Basil returned absently.
Mrs. Frampton accepted that.
'Well! I suppose it has to be. It seems hard on the poor mothers of only
sons, and on the poor wives too. But if it will help us to win the war,
we mustn't grudge them, must we? I suppose it _will_ help us to victory,
won't it?'
'Lord Northcliffe says that too, I understand.... What do _you_ think,
Miss Tucker?' He turned to Evie, to hear her speak.
She said, 'Oh, don't ask me. _I_ don't know. Don't suppose it will make
much difference. Things don't, do they?'
Basil chuckled. 'Precious little, as a rule.... So that settles that.'
He caught sight of the clock and got up.
'I say, I'm afraid I've got to go at once. I shall be awfully late and
rude. I often am, since I joined the army. I was a punctual person once.
The war is very bad for manners and morals, have you discovered, Mrs.
Frampton?'
'Oh well,' Mrs. Frampton spoke condoningly, 'I'm sure we must all hope
it won't last much longer. How long will it be, Mr. Doye, can you tell
us that?'
'Seven years,' said Mr. Doye. 'Till October 1922, you know. Yes, awful,
isn't it? I'm frightfully sorry I had to tell you. Good-bye, Mrs.
Frampton.' He shook hands with them all; his eyes lingered, bright and
smiling, on Evie, as if they found her a pleasant sight. In Alix that
look seemed to stab and twist, like a turning sword. Perhaps that was
what men felt when a bayonet got them.... The odd thing in the
psychology of it was that she had never known before that she was a
jealous person; she had always, like so many others, assumed she wasn't.
Certainly Evie's beauty had been to her till now pure joy.
As she went to the door with Basil, he said, 'I say, I wish you and your
cousin would come into the country one Sunday. We might make up a small
party. Your cousin looks as if she would rather like walking.'
'She's rather past it, I'm afraid,' said Alix, and added, in answer to
his stare, 'Cousin Emily, you mean, don't you? The Tuckers aren't my
cousins, you know. And she's only a dead cousin's wife. The Tuckers
aren't even that.'
'No, hardly that, I suppose. Well, ask Miss Tucker if she'd care to
come, will you? I should think she'd be rather a good country person. We
might go next Sunday, if it's fine.'
Alix did not remark that Kate was not a particularly good country
person. She merely said, 'All right.... Mind the step at the gate....
Good-night,' and shut the door.
6
She stood for a moment listening to the tread of his feet along the
asphalt pavement, then sat down on the umbrella stand thoughtfully.
For a moment it came to her that among the many things the war had taken
from her (Paul, Basil, sleep at nights) were two that mattered just now
particularly--good breeding, and self-control. She knew she might feel
and behave like a cad, and also that she might cry. It was the second of
these that she least wanted to do. She had to be very gay and bright....
For a moment her fingers were pressed against her eyelids. When she took
them away she saw balls of fire dancing all over the hall and up the
stairs.
'I shall ask Kate,' she said.
Florence came up the kitchen stairs with food. Kate came out of the
sitting-room to help her set the table. Alix said, 'Let me help, Kate,'
and began to bustle about the dining-room.
'You're giving mother Evie's serviette,' said Kate, who probably thought
this outburst of helpfulness more surprising than useful.
'By the way, Kate,' said Alix suddenly, giving Mrs. Frampton Kate's
serviette instead, 'I suppose you wouldn't care to come for a long walk
in the country on Sunday? I'm going with Basil Doye and some other
people, and he asked me to ask you.'
Kate looked repressive.
'Considering my class, and church, and that I never take train on
Sunday, it's so likely, isn't it?... And I rather wonder you like to go
these Sunday outings, Alix. Don't you think it's nice to keep one day
quiet, not to speak of higher things, with all the rushing about you do
during the week?'
Kate felt it her duty to say these things sometimes to Alix, who had not
been well brought up.
'It might be nice,' returned Alix, absently juggling with napkins. 'But
it's difficult, rather.... I say, I believe I've got these wrong
still.... I must go and change now.'
She found Evie changing already, cool, clear-skinned, cheerful, humming
a tune.
It was difficult to speak to Evie, but Alix did it. She even hooked her
up behind. She saw Evie's reflection in the glass, pretty and brown. She
tried not to think that Evie was gayer than usual, and knew she was. She
changed her own dress, and talked fast. She saw her face in the glass;
it was flushed and feverish.
7
They went down to supper. There was cold brawn, and custard, and stewed
apple, and cheese, and what Violette called preserve. An excellent meal,
but one in which Alix found no joy. She wanted something warming.
'It was a pity Mr. Doye wasn't able to stay,' said Mrs. Frampton. 'He's
quite full of fun, isn't he?'
'Talks a lot of nonsense, _I_ think,' said Evie.
'The brawn would hardly have been sufficient,' said Kate, meaning if Mr.
Doye had been able to stay.
'A little custard, love?' Mrs. Frampton said to Alix. 'Why, you don't
look well, Alix. You look as if you had quite a temperature. I hope
you've not a chill beginning. These east winds are so searching and your
necks are so low. You'd better go to bed early, dear, and Florence shall
make you some hot currant tea.'
'Florence says,' said Kate, reminded of that, 'that those people at
Primmerose have lost their third girl this month. The girls simply won't
stay, and Florence says she doesn't blame them. They're dreadfully
common people, I'm afraid, those Primmerose people. There are some funny
stories going round about them, only of course one can't encourage
Florence to talk. I believe the amount of wine and spirits they take in
is something dreadful. In wartime, too. It does seem sad, doesn't it?
You'd think people might restrain themselves just now, but some seem
never to think of that. Mr. Alison says all this luxury and intemperance
is quite shameful. He preached on it on Sunday night. His idea is that
the war was sent us as a judgment, for all our wicked luxury and vice,
and it will never cease till we are converted, Lord Derby or no Lord
Derby, conscription or no conscription. He says all that is just a
question of detail and method, but the only way to stop the war is a
change of life. He was very forcible, I thought.'
'Perhaps,' said Mrs. Frampton, 'that's what Mr. Doye meant when he said,
didn't he, how all these measures, conscription and so on, don't make so
much difference after all. No, it was Evie said it, wasn't it? and Mr.
Doye agreed and seemed quite pleased with her, I thought. Perhaps he
meant the same as Mr. Alison, about a change of life. I expect he's very
good himself, isn't he, Alix?'
Evie, to whom goodness meant dullness, said, 'I bet he isn't. Is he,
Al?'
'_I_ don't know,' said Alix. 'You'd better ask him.'
She added after a moment, 'I'll ask him for you on Sunday, if you like.
We're going out somewhere, if it's fine.'
'It was very kind of him to ask me too,' said Kate. 'You must explain to
him how it is I can't, with its being Sunday.'
Across the table Alix's eyes met Evie's, suddenly widened in guileless,
surprised mirth, with a touch of chagrin.
Evie said, 'Why, whatever did he ask Kate for? He might have known she
wouldn't.... Men are ...'
'You're not coming, you're not coming, you're _not_ coming,' said Alix
within herself, breathing fast and clenching her napkin tight in her two
hands and staring across the table defensively out of narrowed eyes.
So they left it at that.
8
But in the night Evie won. One may begin these things, if sufficiently
unhinged and demoralised by private emotions and public events, but one
cannot always keep them up.
The policeman paced up and down, up and down Spring Hill, the rain
dripped, the gutters gurgled, Evie breathed softly, asleep, the dark
night peered through waving curtains, Alix turned her pillow over and
over and cursed.
'I suppose,' she said at last, at 2 A.M., 'she's got to come....'
At 2.30 she said, 'It will be a beastly day,' and sighed crossly and
began to go to sleep.
9
At half-past seven, while Evie did her hair, Alix said, on a weary yawn,
'I say, you'd better come out with us on Sunday, as Kate won't.'
Evie, with hairpins in her mouth, said, 'Me? Oh, all right, I don't
mind. Will it amuse me? What's the game?'
'Oh, nothing especial. Just a day in the country. No, I shouldn't think
it would amuse you much, especially as you won't know hardly any of the
people. But come if you like.'
'You're awfully encouraging.' Evie considered it, and pinned her hair
up. 'Oh, I expect I may as well come. It will be cheerier than stopping
at home. And I rather like meeting new people.... All right, I'm on.
Gracious, there's the bell. You'll be late, child. If they're half as
particular at your shop as they are at mine, you must get into a lot of
rows.'
So that was settled.