I had a terrible experience yesterday, one of life's inky black hours
which will bring a shudder whenever in future days memory seizes an idle
moment to refresh herself. I had been dining with Scarfield and his
mother at Hampstead, and with the entry of the coffee he had pleaded a
sudden dyspepsia and withdrawn. So his mother, a dear colourless old
lady, undertook to entertain me. By her desire I lighted a cigar.
She mentioned that she had just returned from a visit to Glasgow, and I
remarked intelligently that Glasgow was a fine place. Considering for a
moment, she observed that she thought the weather in Glasgow was colder
than that of the South of England; and I said, Yes, very likely, I had
heard so. In about two minutes she qualified her statement by informing
me that the South of England was as a rule milder than Glasgow. I
replied that it appeared to me very possible, adding recklessly that
they had peculiarly mixed weather in Glasgow, which she seemed to think
rather a questionable presentment of the case for the North, for she
kept silent and ruminated for seven or eight minutes. My mind took a
little excursion to Putney, where I have friends. But, before I had
really settled at Putney, the lady's voice intimated that perhaps they
had more rain in Glasgow than in the South of England.
I came back from Putney with a slight mental wrench, yet sufficiently
clear-headed to say decidedly that Glasgow, on the whole, had a much
better climate than the South, because I had once spent a day there, and
the sun shone the whole time, so I ought to know. Then I started off
again, and had just reached Walham Green (one does not speak of these
places, but I may tell you that it is a station on the way to Putney,
where I have a friend), when she responded with lightning-like swiftness
that it couldn't be healthy to live in Glasgow. This bordered on
repartee, so I countered rapidly with the brilliant suggestion that a
good many people managed to live there, hoping she would not score by
the obvious rejoinder that a good many people died there. If she had, I
can't imagine how I should have extricated myself. Luckily she merely
murmured, "Ah, yes," and reflected. I was just stepping off the train at
a station (Putney--to be explicit, it is a lady friend) when there
seemed to be a collision, and I caught myself saying, "Indeed!" though I
don't know why. She nodded approval, however, and I ventured on a
meditative "Ye-es."
"But they don't seem to mind," she said, glancing at me blandly through
her spectacles. "_Do_ they?"
"You see," I answered, chancing it, "they are so used to it." She smiled
and agreed.
"That must be the reason," she said. For what, I hadn't the remotest
idea; but this just shows what presence of mind will do for one in an
emergency.
"What a difference they must find," I went on boldly, and lapsed into a
muse. She sighted it, however, and replied in less than five minutes--
"You mean now that the old-fashioned ones are coming in again?"
Here was a catastrophe. Did she refer to hats, or skirts, or Christmas
cards? What sudden original observation had I unfortunately missed
during that last journey South-westward? At all costs I must keep cool.
I pulled myself together and plunged.
"Yes," I said. "You see the old-fashioned ones were so awfully tight,
weren't they?"
"Tight?" she echoed. "Not _tight_."
"Well, not exactly _tight_," I answered, feeling rather distracted. "I
meant large."
She looked at me suspiciously, I thought. "_I_ think they're too long,"
she said, "and such a lot of people in them."
This was growing too complicated, and I wished heartily we had stuck to
Glasgow and its weather.
"One finds them," she added, "so hard to follow."
I racked my miserable brain for anything that was lengthy, populous, and
difficult to follow; in vain.
"Still," I gasped, glancing at the door, "one can always ... one can
generally ... one can sometimes sit down ... for a rest ... if one is
dreadfully tired," I explained.
She gazed at me reproachfully.
"I don't usually stand at the back of the pit," she said. "The last time
Fred took me we had stalls."
"How--how _jolly_!" I murmured. "I was thinking of--of----"
"If you please, Mr. Fred would like some soda-water and a few biscuits
taken up, Ma'am," said the servant, entering softly.