Our removal into Pastimes--like every other removal since the time when
man began to live beneath a roof--took far longer than we expected. I
went back to Ireland to gather my possessions, and say good-bye, and
Charmion stayed in London to hurry up tradesmen, and make uninteresting
purchases of pots and pans, and dusters and door scrapers, and the other
needfuls which every house must have, but which are so dull to buy.
When I joined her in the hotel, I found her in a state of haughty
displeasure over the extraordinary delay which was attending the work at
Pastimes itself. In another person this state of mind would have found
vent in "fuming," but Charmion never fumed. She folded her hands, and
drooped her white lids, and drawled in a tone of incredulous disgust:--
"I can't understand it. I _told_ them to be quick. I expressly
stipulated that they were not to potter."
"Apparently they are not even `pottering'! They have not begun at all!"
I said grimly, as I ran my eye down the letter just received from the
"man in charge". It was the ordinary, ultra-polite, ultra-servile
production of the tradesman who has _not_ kept his word.
"Dear Madam,--Owing to a press of other work, I regret that I have not
been able to commence--"
"Commence! Odious word. It is adding insult to injury to use it. And
what can he mean? He seemed so keen about the order. Said he was so
slack that he would be able to put on all his hands!"
"I shall write and tell him to do so at once," said Charmion
magnificently, and I held my peace and let her do it, knowing that it
would be no use to object, and hoping that at least her letter might
succeed in extracting some more definite information.