I had luncheon in the club and then, without waiting even for a cup of
coffee and a cigarette, went back to my hotel. I felt that I must make
the most perfect possible arrangements for my tea party. The violence
of my invitations would naturally raise Lalage’s expectations to the
highest pitch. I sent for the head waiter, who had struck me as an able
and intelligent man.
“I am expecting some ladies this afternoon,” I said, “and I shall have
tea in my sitting room at five o’clock. I want everything to be as nice
as possible, fresh flowers and that kind of thing.”
The man nodded sympathetically and gave me the impression that long
practice had familiarized him with the procedure of tea parties for
ladies.
“These ladies are young,” I said, “quite young, and so the cakes must be
of the most sumptuous possible kind, not ordinary slices cut off large
cakes, but small creations, each complete in itself and wrapped in a
little paper frill. Do you understand what I mean?”
He said he did, thoroughly.
“I need scarcely say,” I added, “that many if not all of the cakes must
be coated with sugar. Some ought to be filled with whipped cream. The
others should contain or be contained by almond icing.”
The head waiter asked for information about the size of the party.
“There are only two ladies,” I said, “but they are bringing a young man
with them. We may, as he is not here, describe him as a boy. Therefore
there must be a large number of cakes, say four dozen.”
The head waiter’s eyebrows went up slightly. It was the first sign of
emotion he had shown.
“I sha’n’t eat more than two myself,” I said, “so four dozen ought to be
enough. I also want ices, twelve ices.”
This time the head waiter gasped. It was a cold, a remarkably cold, day,
with an east wind and a feeling in the air as if snow was imminent.
“You mustn’t understand from that,” I said, “that the fire is to be
allowed to go out. Quite the contrary. I want a particularly good fire.
When the others are eating ices I shall feel the need of it.”
The head waiter asked if I had a preference for any particular kind of
ice.
“Strawberry,” I said, “vanilla, and coffee. Three of each, and three
neapolitan. That will make up the dozen. I shall want a whole box of
wafers. The ices can be brought in after tea, say at twenty minutes past
five. It wouldn’t do to have them melting while we were at the cakes,
and I insist on a good fire.”
The head waiter recapitulated my orders to make sure that he had got
them right and then left me.
At twenty minutes to five Lalage and Hilda arrived. They looked very
hot, which pleased me. I had been feeling a little nervous about the
ices. They explained breathlessly that they were sorry for being late. I
reassured them.
“So far from being late,” I said “you’re twenty minutes too early. I’m
delighted to see you, but it’s only twenty minutes to five.”
“There now, Hilda,” said Lalage, “I told you that your old chronometer
had most likely darted on again. I should have had lots and lots of time
to do my hair. Hilda’s watch,” she explained to me, “was left to her in
her grandmother’s will, so of course it goes too fast. It often gains as
much as two hours in the course of the morning.”
“I wonder you trust it,” I said.
“We don’t. When we got your first ‘gram in the Elizabethan we looked
at the clock and saw that we had heaps of time. When your second
came--Selby-Harrison sent it over from number 175--we began to think
that Hilda’s watch might be right after all and that the college clock
had stopped. We went back _ventre à terre_ on the top of a tram to
Trinity Hall and found your third ‘gram waiting for us. That made us
dead certain that we were late. So we slung on any rags that came handy
and simply flew. We didn’t even stay to hook up Hilda’s back. I jabbed
three pins into it in the train.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “that you troubled to change your frocks. I didn’t
expect that you’d have to do that.”
“Of course we had. Didn’t you know we were in for an exam this morning?”
“I did know that; but I thought you’d have had on your very best so as
to soften the Puffin’s heart.”
“The poor old Puffin,” said Lalage, “wouldn’t be any the wiser if we
turned up in our night dresses. He thinks of nothing but parallaxes.
Does he, Hilda?”
Hilda did not answer. She was wriggling her shoulders about, and was
sitting bolt upright in her chair. She leaned back once and when she did
so a spasm of acute pain distorted her face. It occurred to me that one
of the three pins might have been jabbed in too far or not precisely in
the right direction. Lalage could not fairly be blamed, for it must be
difficult to regulate a pin thrust when a tram is in rapid motion. I did
not like the idea of watching Hilda’s sufferings during tea, so I
cast about for the most delicate way of suggesting that she should be
relieved. Lalage was beforehand with me.
“Turn round, Hilda,” she said, “and I’ll hook you up.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “I’d better ring and get a housemaid.”
“What for?” said Lalage.
“I thought perhaps that Hilda might prefer to go to a bedroom. I don’t
matter, of course, but Selby-Harrison may be here at any moment.”
“Selby-Harrison isn’t coming. Turn round, Hilda, and do stand still.”
A waiter came in just then with the tea, I regret to say that he
grinned. I turned my back on him and looked out of the window.
“Selby-Harrison,” said Lalage, “is on Trinity 3rd A., inside left, and
there’s a cup match on to-day, so of course he couldn’t come.”
“This,” I said, “is a great disappointment to me. I’ve been looking
forward for years to making Selby-Harrison’s acquaintance, and every
time I seem to be anywhere near it, something comes and snatches him
away. I’m beginning to think that there isn’t really any such person as
Selby-Harrison.”
Hilda giggled thickly. She seemed to be quite comfortable again. Lalage
snubbed me severely.
“I must say for you,” she said, “that when you choose to go in for
pretending to be an ass you can be more funerally idiotic than any one
I ever met. No wonder the Archdeacon said you’d be beaten in your
election.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes. We were talking to him this morning, Hilda and I and
Selby-Harrison, outside the exam hall. We told him we were going down to
make speeches for you.”
“Was it before or after you told him that he said I’d be beaten?”
“Before,” said Lalage firmly.
“Oh, Lalage! How can you? You know----”
I interrupted Hilda because I did not want to have the harmony of my
party destroyed by recrimination and argument.
“Suppose,” I said, “that we have tea.”
“I must say,” said Lalage, “that you’ve collected a middling good show
of cakes, hasn’t he, Hilda?”
Hilda looked critically at the tea table. She was evidently an expert in
cakes.
“You can’t have got all those out of one shop,” she said. “There isn’t a
place in Dublin that has so many varieties!”
“I’m glad you like the look of them. Which of you will pour out the
tea?”
“Hilda’s birthday was last month,” said Lalage. “Mine isn’t till July.”
This settled the point of precedence. Hilda took her seat opposite the
teapot.
“There are ices coming,” I said a few minutes later, “twelve of them. I
mention it in case----”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Lalage. “We shall be able to manage the
ices. There isn’t really much in these cakes.”
If Selby-Harrison had come there would, I think, have been cakes enough;
but there would not have been any to spare. I only ate two myself. When
we had finished the ices we gave ourselves to conversation.
“That Tithers man,” said Lalage, “seems to be a fairly good sort.”
“Is Tithers another name for the Puffin?”
“No,” said Lalage. “Tithers is Joey P.”
“He signed his letter Joseph P.,” said Hilda, “so at first we called him
that.”
Titherington usually signs himself Joseph P. I inferred that he was
Tithers.
“You liked him?” I said.
“In some ways he’s rather an ass,” said Lalage, “‘and just at first I
thought he was inclined to have too good an opinion of himself. But that
was only his manner. In the end he turned out to be a fairly good sort.
I thought he was going to kick up a bit when I asked him to sign the
agreement, but he did it all right when I explained to him that he’d
have to.”
“Lalage,” I said, “I’d like very much to see that agreement.”
“Hilda has it. Hilda, trot out the agreement.” Hilda trotted it out of
a small bag which she carried attached to her waist by a chain. I opened
it and read aloud:
“Memorandum of an agreement made this tenth day of February between the
Members of the A.S.P.L., hereinafter called the Speakers, of the one
part, and Joseph P. Titherington, election agent, of the other.”
“I call that rather good,” said Lalage.
“Very,” I said, “Selby-Harrison did it, I suppose?”
“Of course,” said Lalage.
“(1) The Speakers are to deliver for the said election agent . . .
speeches before the tenth of March.”
“I told Tithers to fill in the number of speeches he wanted,” said
Lalage, “but he seems to have forgotten.”
“(2) The Speakers hereby agree to assign to the said election agent,
his successors and assigns, and the said election agent hereby agrees to
enjoy, the sole benefit of the above speeches in the British Empire.
“(3) When the demand for such speeches has evidently ceased the said
election agent shall be at liberty----”
I paused. There was something which struck me as familiar about the
wording of this agreement. I recollected suddenly that the Archdeacon
had once consulted me about an agreement which ran very much on the same
lines. It came from the office of a well-known publisher. The Archdeacon
was at that time bringing out his “Lectures to Confirmation Candidates.”
“Has Selby-Harrison,” I asked, “been publishing a book?”
“No,” said Lalage, “but his father has.” “Ah,” I said, “that accounts
for this agreement form.” “Quite so,” said Lalage, “he copied it from
that, making the necessary changes. Rather piffle, I call that part
about enjoying the speeches in the British Empire. It isn’t likely that
Tithers would want to enjoy them anywhere else. But there’s a good bit
coming. Skip on to number eight.” I skipped and then read again.
“(8) The Speakers agree that the said speeches shall be in no way
a violation of existing copyright and the said agent agrees to hold
harmless the said speakers from all suits, claims, and proceedings
which may be taken on the ground that the said speeches contain anything
libellous.”
“That’s important,” said Lalage.
“It is,” I said, “very. I notice that Selby-Harrison has a note at the
bottom of the page to the effect that a penny stamp is required if the
amount is over two pounds. He seems rather fond of that. I recollect he
had it in the agreement he drew up for me.”
“It wasn’t in the original,” said Lalage. “He put it in because we all
thought it would be safer.”
“You were right. After the narrow shave you had with the bishops you
can’t be too careful. And the amount is almost certain to be over two
pounds. Even Vittie’s character must be worth more than that.”
“Vittie,” said Lalage, “appears to be the very kind of man we want to
get at. I’ve been reading his speeches.”
“I expect,” I said, “that you’ll enjoy O’Donoghue too. But Vittie is to
be your chief prey. I wonder Mr. Titherington didn’t insist on inserting
a clause to that effect in the agreement.”
“Tithers hated signing it. I was obliged to keep prodding him on or he
wouldn’t have done it. Selby-Harrison said that either you or he must,
so of course it had to be him. We couldn’t go for you in any way because
we’d promised to respect your scruples.”
I recollected the telegram I had received just before leaving Lisbon.
“I wish,” I said, “that I felt sure you had respected my scruples. What
about Selby-Harrison’s father? Has he been consulted?”
“Selby-Harrison isn’t coming, only me and Hilda.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing he’s in the Divinity School now.”
“That needn’t stop him,” I said. “My constituency is full of parsons,
priests, and Presbyterian ministers, all rampant. Selby-Harrison will be
in good company. But how did he get into the Divinity School? I thought
the Provost said he must take up medicine on account of that trouble
with the bishops.”
“Oh, that’s all blown over long ago. And being a divinity student
wasn’t his only reason for not coming. The fact is his father lives down
there.”
“Ah,” I said, “That’s more serious.”
“He wrote to his father and told him to be sure to vote for you. That
was as far as he cared to go in the matter.”
“It was very good of him to do so much. And now about your mother,
Hilda. Has she given her consent?”
“Not quite,” said Hilda. “But she hasn’t forbidden me.
“We haven’t told her,” said Lalage.
“Lalage, you haven’t respected my scruples and you promised you would.
You promised in the most solemn way in a telegram which must have cost
you twopence a word.”
“We have respected them,” said Lalage.
“You have not. My chief scruple was Hilda’s mother.”
“My point is that you haven’t had anything to do with the business. We
arranged it all with Tithers and you weren’t even asked to give your
consent. I don’t see what more could have been done for your scruples.”
“Hilda’s mother might have been asked.”
“I can’t stop here arguing with you all afternoon,” said Lalage. “Come
on, Hilda.”
“Don’t go just yet. I promise not to mention Hilda’s mother again.”
“We can’t possibly stay, can we, Hilda? We have our viva to-morrow.”
“Viva!”
“Voce,” said Lalage. “You must know what that means. The kind of exam
you don’t write.”
I got viva into its natural connection with voce and grasped at Lalage’s
meaning.
“Part of the Jun. Soph. Ord.?” I said.
“Of course,” said Lalage. “What else could it be?”
“In that case I mustn’t keep you. You’ll be wanting to look up your
astronomy. But you must allow me to parcel up the rest of the cakes for
you. I should like you to have them and you’re sure to be hungry again
before bedtime.”
“Won’t you want them yourself?”
“No, I won’t. And even if I did I wouldn’t eat them. It would hardly be
fair to Mr. Titherington. He’s doing his best for me and he’ll naturally
expect me to keep as fit as possible.”
“Very well,” said Lalage, “rather than to leave them here to rot or be
eaten by mice we’ll take them. Hilda, pack them up in that biscuit tin
and take care that the creamy ones don’t get squashed.”
Hilda tried to pack them up, but the biscuit tin would not hold them
all. We had not finished the wafers which it originally contained. I
rang for the waiter and made him bring us a cardboard box. We laid the
cakes in it very tenderly. We tied on the lid with string and then made
a loop in the string for Hilda’s hand. It was she who carried both the
box and the biscuit tin.
“Good-bye,” said Lalage. “We’ll meet again on the twenty-first.”
It was not until after they were gone that I understood why we should
meet again on the twenty-first. That was the day of my first meeting in
East Connor, and Lalage had promised to speak at it. I felt very uneasy.
It was utterly impossible to guess at what might happen when Lalage
appeared in the constituency. I sat down and wrote a letter to Canon
Beresford. I did not expect him to do anything, but it relieved my
mind to write. After all, it was his business, not mine, to look after
Lalage. Three days later I got an answer from him, which said:
“I shall not be at all surprised, if Lalage turns out to be a good
platform speaker. She has, I understand, had a good deal of practice
in some college debating society and has acquired a certain fluency of
utterance. She always had something to say, even as a child. I wish I
could run up to County Down and hear her, but it is a long journey and
the weather is miserably cold. The Archdeacon told me yesterday that you
meant to employ her in this election of yours. He seemed to dislike the
idea very much and wanted me to ‘put my foot down.’ (The phrase, I need
scarcely say, is his.) I explained to him that if I put my foot down
Lalage would immediately tread on it, which would hurt me and not even
trip her. Besides, I do not see why I should. If Lalage finds that kind
of thing amusing she ought to be allowed to enjoy it. You have my best
wishes for your success with the _turba Quiritium_. I am glad, very,
that it is you who have to face them, not I. I do not know anything in
the world that I should dislike more.”