When I week-end with people I like them to be tactful. I thought
Mrs. Benham lacked the tact essential to a hostess when she said, "We
breakfast at half-past nine on Sundays. That will give us all
ample time to get to church." She never seemed to contemplate the
possibility of my having a Sunday morning indisposition.
Now there is no virtue in compulsory church-going, but as I was for it
I accepted my fate cheerfully. I walked with Benham across the park to
the church. He is the adopted Candidate for the division, and he took
the opportunity of rehearsing to me a speech he was preparing which
showed up Bolshevism in its true colours. Though no Sabbatarian I have
the deepest objection to political speeches on a Sunday, and it was
really a relief when I reached the gracious refuge of the church.
The family pew was a little too near the pulpit, but it was most
comfortable. When the sermon came on I settled myself in a restful
corner to listen to the Archdeacon. After a moment or two I felt he
was on sound orthodox lines and needed no supervision of mine. I leant
back and gradually dozed off.
Then in my sleep I became aware of a stern voice disapproving of
something. It seemed to me that Benham was at a public meeting
denouncing Bolshevism to a very lethargic audience. It was my bounden
duty to support my host. "Hear, hear! Hear, hear!" I said most
emphatically.
I woke up just as the last "Hear" left my lips. The choir-boys were
sniggering--you can always trust them to do that. A large curate was
eyeing me as if I were something between a leper and a dissenter.
Mrs. Benham was looking indignantly down the pew at me; Benham was
tactfully but ineffectively pretending not to have heard anything.
I went hot all over. What could I do? Should I be prosecuted for
brawling in church? Could I possibly explain to the Archdeacon that I
spoke in my sleep, and therefore was not responsible? There are some
explanations that aggravate an offence.
There came a terrible moment when the service was over. The Archdeacon
stepped deliberately towards our pew. I was tempted to bolt through a
stained-glass window. And then, as he came near, he beamed on me.
"Don't apologise, my dear Sir, don't apologise. If you were so moved
by the picture I drew of the inroads the new Divorce Law would make on
the sanctity of our homes why should you not express your indignation?
Enthusiasm is far better than lethargy."
"Mr. Johnson feels very strongly on the subject," said Mrs. Benham. I
had never said a word about it before her in my life.
That night she surveyed me carefully. "I can see you've a headache,
Mr. Johnson," she said. "You had better not go to church; there is
nothing worse than a hot church for headache."
After all, Mrs. Benham is not without tact.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRAGEDY OF A CIGAR-ASH.]
* * * * *
Another Impending Apology?
"The Bank now gives employment to 6,000 persons, 2,000 of whom
are women. In order to accommodate them outside premises
have been acquired from time to time. The chief of these new
establishments is St. Luke's Hospital for Lunatics."--_Sunday
Paper._
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Farmer._ "SO YOU WANT A JOB OF WORK, EH?"
_Applicant._ "I SAID A JOB. I NEVER SAID A JOB O' WORK."]
* * * * *