The murky day was turning cold, the trees dripped, the car-wheels splashed up the surface water. From the doorway of the hut Michael watched them get out, and thought he had never seen three more untimely creatures. Bergfeld came first; having only one suit, he had put it on, and looked what he was–an actor out of a job. Mrs. Bergfeld came second, and having no outdoor coat, looked what she was–nearly frozen. Swain came last. On his shadowy face was nothing quite so spirited as a sneer; but he gazed about him, and seemed to say: ‘My hat!’
Boddick, with a sort of prescience, was absent in the coppice. ‘He,’ thought Michael, ‘is my only joy!’
Taking them into the kitchen messroom of the hut, he deployed a thermos of hot coffee, a cake, and a bottle of rum.
“Awfully sorry things look so dishevelled; but I think the hut’s dry, and there are plenty of blankets. These oil-lamps smell rather. You were in the war, Mr. Swain; you’ll feel at home in no time. Mrs. Bergfeld, you look so cold, do put some rum into your coffee; we always do when we go over the top.”
They all put rum into their coffee, which had a marked effect. Mrs. Bergfeld’s cheeks grew pink, and her eyes darkened. Swain remarked that the hut was a ‘bit of all right’; Bergfeld began making a speech. Michael checked him. “Boddick knows all the ropes. I’m afraid I’ve got to catch a train; I’ve only just time to show you round.”
While whirling back to town afterwards he felt that he had, indeed, abandoned his platoon just as it was going over the top. That night he would be dining in Society; there would be light and warmth, jewels and pictures, wine and talk; the dinner would cost the board of his ‘down and outs’ for a quarter at least; and nobody would give them and their like a thought. If he ventured to draw Fleur’s attention to the contrast, she would say:
“My dear boy, that’s like a book by Gurdon Minho; you’re getting sentimental.” And he would feel a fool. Or would he? Would he not, perhaps, look at her small distinguished head, and think: ‘Too easy a way out, my dear; those who take it have little heads!’ And, then, his eyes, straying farther down to that white throat and all the dainty loveliness below, would convey a warmth to his blood and a warning to his brain not to give way to blasphemy, lest it end by disturbing bliss. For what with Foggartism, poultry, and the rest of it, Michael had serious thoughts sometimes that Fleur had none; and with wisdom born of love, he knew that if she hadn’t, she never would have, and he must get used to it. She was what she was, and could be converted only in popular fiction. Excellent business for the self-centred heroine to turn from interest in her own belongings to interest in people who had none; but in life it wasn’t done. Fleur at least camouflaged her self-concentration gracefully; and with Kit–! Ah! but Kit was herself!
So he did not mention his ‘down and outs’ on their way to dinner in Eaton Square. He took instead a lesson in the royal Personage named on their invitation card, and marvelled at Fleur’s knowledge. “She’s interested in social matters. And do remember, Michael, not to sit down till she asks you to, and not to get up before her, and to say ‘ma’am.’”
Michael grinned. “I suppose they’all all be nobs, or sn–er–why the deuce did they ask us?”
But Fleur was silent, thinking of her curtsey.
Royalty was affable, the dinner short but superb, served and eaten off gold plate, at a rate which suited the impression that there really wasn’t a moment to spare. Fleur took a mental note of this new necessity. She knew personally five of the twenty-four diners, and the rest as in an illustrated paper, darkly. She had seen them all there at one time or another, stepping hideously in paddocks, photographed with their offsprings or their dogs, about to reply for the Colonies, or ‘taking a lunar’ at a flying grouse. Her quick instinct apprehended almost at once the reason why she and Michael had been invited. His speech! Like some new specimen at the Zoo, he was an object of curiosity, a stunt. She saw people nodding in the direction of him, seated opposite her between two ladies covered with flesh and pearls. Excited and very pretty, she flirted with the Admiral on her right, and defended Michael with spirit from the Under–Secretary on her left. The Admiral grew warm, the Under–Secretary, too young for emotion, cold.
“A little knowledge, Mrs. Mont,” he said at the end of his short second innings, “is a dangerous thing.”
“Now where have I heard that?” said Fleur. “Is it in the Bible?”
The Under–Secretary tilted his chin.
“We who have to work Departments know too much, perhaps; but your husband certainly doesn’t know enough. Foggartism is an amusing idea, but there it stops.”
“We shall see!” said Fleur. “What do you say, Admiral?”
“Foggartism! What’s that–new kind of death ray? I saw a fellow yesterday, Mrs. Mont–give you my word! – who’s got a ray that goes through three bullocks, a nine-inch brick wall, and gives a shock to a donkey on the other side; and only at quarter strength.”
Fleur flashed a look round towards the Under–Secretary, who had turned his shoulder, and, leaning towards the Admiral, murmured:
“I wish you’d give a shock to the donkey on my other side; he wants it, and I’m not nine inches thick.”
But before the Admiral could shoot his death ray, Royalty had risen.
In the apartment to which Fleur was withdrawn, she had been saying little for some minutes, and noticing much, when her hostess came up and said:
“My dear, Her Royal Highness–”
Fleur followed, retaining every wit.
A frank and simple hand patted the sofa beside her. Fleur sat down. A frank and simple voice said:
“What an interesting speech your husband made! It was so refreshing, I thought.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Fleur; “but there it will stop, I am told.”
A faint smile curled lips guiltless of colouring matter.
“Well, perhaps. Has he been long in Parliament?”
“Only a year.”
“Ah! I liked his taking up the cudgels for the children.”
“Some people think he’s proposing a new kind of child slavery.”
“Oh, really! Have you any children?”
“One,” said Fleur, and added honestly: “And I must say I wouldn’t part with him at fourteen.”
“Ah! and have you been long married?”
“Four years.”
At this moment the royal lady saw some one else she wished to speak to, and was compelled to break off the conversation, which she did very graciously, leaving Fleur with the feeling that she had been disappointed with the rate of production.
In the cab trailing its way home through the foggy night, she felt warm and excited, and as if Michael wasn’t.
“What’s the matter, Michael?”
His hand came down on her knee at once.
“Sorry, old thing! Only, really–when you think of it–eh?”
“Of what? You were quite a li–object of interest.”
“The whole thing’s a game. Anything for novelty!”
“The Princess was very nice about you.”
“Ah! Poor thing! But I suppose you get used to anything!”
Fleur laughed. Michael went on:
“Any new idea gets seized and talked out of existence. It never gets farther than the brain, and the brain gets bored; and there it is, already a back number!”
“That can’t be true, Michael. What about Free Trade, or Woman Suffrage?”
Michael squeezed her knee. “All the women say to me: ‘But how interesting, Mr. Mont; I think it’s most thrilling!’ And the men say: ‘Good stunt, Mont! But not practical politics, of course.’ And I’ve only one answer: ‘Things as big got done in the war.’ By George, it’s foggy!”
They were going, indeed, at a snail’s pace, and through the windows could see nothing but the faint glow of the street-lamps emerging slowly, high up, one by one. Michael let down a window, and leaned out.
“Where are we?”
“Gawd knows, sir.”
Michael coughed, put up the window again, and resumed his clutch of Fleur.
“By the way, Wastwater asked me if I’d read ‘Canthar.’ He says there’s a snorting cut-up of it in The Protagonist. It’ll have the usual effect–send sales up.”
“They say it’s very clever.”
“Horribly out of drawing–not fit for children, and tells adults nothing they don’t know. I don’t see how it can be justified.”
“Genius, my dear. If it’s attacked, it’ll be defended.”
“Sib Swan won’t have it–he says it’s muck.”
“Oh! yes; but Sib’s getting a back number.”
“That’s very true,” said Michael, thoughtfully. “By Jove! how fast things move, except in politics, and fog.”
Their cab had come to a standstill. Michael let down the window again.
“I’m fair lost, sir,” said the driver’s hoarse voice. “Ought to be near the Embankment, but for the life of me I can’t find the turning.” Michael buttoned his coat, put up the window again, and got out on the near side.
The night was smothered, alive only with the continual hootings of creeping cars. The black vapour, acrid and cold, surged into Michael’s lungs.
“I’ll walk beside you; we’re against the curb; creep on till we strike the river, or a bobby.”
The cab crept on, and Michael walked beside it, feeling with his foot for the curb.
The refined voice of an invisible man said: “This is sanguinary!”
“It is,” said Michael. “Where are we?”
“In the twentieth century, and the heart of civilisation.”
Michael laughed, and regretted it; the fog tasted of filth.
“Think of the police!” said the voice, “having to be out in this all night!”
“Splendid force, the police!” replied Michael. “Where are you, sir?”
“Here, sir. Where are you?”
It was the exact position. The blurred moon of a lamp glowed suddenly above Michael’s head. The cab ceased to move.
“If I could only smell the ‘Ouses of Parliament,” said the cabman. “They’ll be ‘avin’ supper there be now.”
“Listen!” said Michael–Big Ben was striking. “That was to our left.”
“At our back,” said the cabman.
“Can’t be, or we should be in the river; unless you’ve turned right round!”
“Gawd knows where I’ve turned,” said the cabman, sneezing. “Never saw such a night!”
“There’s only one thing for it–drive on until we hit something. Gently does it.”
The cabman started the cab, and Michael, with his hand on it, continued to feel for the curb with his foot.
“Steady!” he said, suddenly. “Car in front.” There was a slight bump.
“Nah then!” said a voice. “Where yer comin’? Cawn’t yer see?”
Michael moved up alongside of what seemed to be another taxi.
“Comin’ along at that pice!” said its driver; “and full moon, too!”
“Awfully sorry,” said Michael. “No harm done. You got any sense of direction left?”
“The pubs are all closed–worse luck! There’s a bloomin’ car in front o’ me that I’ve hit three times. Can’t make any impression on it. The driver’s dead, I think. Would yer go and look, Guv’nor?”
Michael moved towards the loom in front. But at that moment it gave way to the more universal blackness. He ran four steps to hail the driver, stumbled off the curb, fell, picked himself up and spun round. He moved along the curb to his right, felt he was going wrong, stopped, and called: “Hallo!” A faint “Hallo!” replied from–where? He moved what he thought was back, and called again. No answer! Fleur would be frightened! He shouted. Half a dozen faint hallos replied to him; and someone at his elbow said: “Don’t cher know where y’are?”
“No; do you?”
“What do you think?
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Boddick, with a sort of prescience, was absent in the coppice. ‘He,’ thought Michael, ‘is my only joy!’
Taking them into the kitchen messroom of the hut, he deployed a thermos of hot coffee, a cake, and a bottle of rum.
“Awfully sorry things look so dishevelled; but I think the hut’s dry, and there are plenty of blankets. These oil-lamps smell rather. You were in the war, Mr. Swain; you’ll feel at home in no time. Mrs. Bergfeld, you look so cold, do put some rum into your coffee; we always do when we go over the top.”
They all put rum into their coffee, which had a marked effect. Mrs. Bergfeld’s cheeks grew pink, and her eyes darkened. Swain remarked that the hut was a ‘bit of all right’; Bergfeld began making a speech. Michael checked him. “Boddick knows all the ropes. I’m afraid I’ve got to catch a train; I’ve only just time to show you round.”
While whirling back to town afterwards he felt that he had, indeed, abandoned his platoon just as it was going over the top. That night he would be dining in Society; there would be light and warmth, jewels and pictures, wine and talk; the dinner would cost the board of his ‘down and outs’ for a quarter at least; and nobody would give them and their like a thought. If he ventured to draw Fleur’s attention to the contrast, she would say:
“My dear boy, that’s like a book by Gurdon Minho; you’re getting sentimental.” And he would feel a fool. Or would he? Would he not, perhaps, look at her small distinguished head, and think: ‘Too easy a way out, my dear; those who take it have little heads!’ And, then, his eyes, straying farther down to that white throat and all the dainty loveliness below, would convey a warmth to his blood and a warning to his brain not to give way to blasphemy, lest it end by disturbing bliss. For what with Foggartism, poultry, and the rest of it, Michael had serious thoughts sometimes that Fleur had none; and with wisdom born of love, he knew that if she hadn’t, she never would have, and he must get used to it. She was what she was, and could be converted only in popular fiction. Excellent business for the self-centred heroine to turn from interest in her own belongings to interest in people who had none; but in life it wasn’t done. Fleur at least camouflaged her self-concentration gracefully; and with Kit–! Ah! but Kit was herself!
So he did not mention his ‘down and outs’ on their way to dinner in Eaton Square. He took instead a lesson in the royal Personage named on their invitation card, and marvelled at Fleur’s knowledge. “She’s interested in social matters. And do remember, Michael, not to sit down till she asks you to, and not to get up before her, and to say ‘ma’am.’”
Michael grinned. “I suppose they’all all be nobs, or sn–er–why the deuce did they ask us?”
But Fleur was silent, thinking of her curtsey.
Royalty was affable, the dinner short but superb, served and eaten off gold plate, at a rate which suited the impression that there really wasn’t a moment to spare. Fleur took a mental note of this new necessity. She knew personally five of the twenty-four diners, and the rest as in an illustrated paper, darkly. She had seen them all there at one time or another, stepping hideously in paddocks, photographed with their offsprings or their dogs, about to reply for the Colonies, or ‘taking a lunar’ at a flying grouse. Her quick instinct apprehended almost at once the reason why she and Michael had been invited. His speech! Like some new specimen at the Zoo, he was an object of curiosity, a stunt. She saw people nodding in the direction of him, seated opposite her between two ladies covered with flesh and pearls. Excited and very pretty, she flirted with the Admiral on her right, and defended Michael with spirit from the Under–Secretary on her left. The Admiral grew warm, the Under–Secretary, too young for emotion, cold.
“A little knowledge, Mrs. Mont,” he said at the end of his short second innings, “is a dangerous thing.”
“Now where have I heard that?” said Fleur. “Is it in the Bible?”
The Under–Secretary tilted his chin.
“We who have to work Departments know too much, perhaps; but your husband certainly doesn’t know enough. Foggartism is an amusing idea, but there it stops.”
“We shall see!” said Fleur. “What do you say, Admiral?”
“Foggartism! What’s that–new kind of death ray? I saw a fellow yesterday, Mrs. Mont–give you my word! – who’s got a ray that goes through three bullocks, a nine-inch brick wall, and gives a shock to a donkey on the other side; and only at quarter strength.”
Fleur flashed a look round towards the Under–Secretary, who had turned his shoulder, and, leaning towards the Admiral, murmured:
“I wish you’d give a shock to the donkey on my other side; he wants it, and I’m not nine inches thick.”
But before the Admiral could shoot his death ray, Royalty had risen.
In the apartment to which Fleur was withdrawn, she had been saying little for some minutes, and noticing much, when her hostess came up and said:
“My dear, Her Royal Highness–”
Fleur followed, retaining every wit.
A frank and simple hand patted the sofa beside her. Fleur sat down. A frank and simple voice said:
“What an interesting speech your husband made! It was so refreshing, I thought.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Fleur; “but there it will stop, I am told.”
A faint smile curled lips guiltless of colouring matter.
“Well, perhaps. Has he been long in Parliament?”
“Only a year.”
“Ah! I liked his taking up the cudgels for the children.”
“Some people think he’s proposing a new kind of child slavery.”
“Oh, really! Have you any children?”
“One,” said Fleur, and added honestly: “And I must say I wouldn’t part with him at fourteen.”
“Ah! and have you been long married?”
“Four years.”
At this moment the royal lady saw some one else she wished to speak to, and was compelled to break off the conversation, which she did very graciously, leaving Fleur with the feeling that she had been disappointed with the rate of production.
In the cab trailing its way home through the foggy night, she felt warm and excited, and as if Michael wasn’t.
“What’s the matter, Michael?”
His hand came down on her knee at once.
“Sorry, old thing! Only, really–when you think of it–eh?”
“Of what? You were quite a li–object of interest.”
“The whole thing’s a game. Anything for novelty!”
“The Princess was very nice about you.”
“Ah! Poor thing! But I suppose you get used to anything!”
Fleur laughed. Michael went on:
“Any new idea gets seized and talked out of existence. It never gets farther than the brain, and the brain gets bored; and there it is, already a back number!”
“That can’t be true, Michael. What about Free Trade, or Woman Suffrage?”
Michael squeezed her knee. “All the women say to me: ‘But how interesting, Mr. Mont; I think it’s most thrilling!’ And the men say: ‘Good stunt, Mont! But not practical politics, of course.’ And I’ve only one answer: ‘Things as big got done in the war.’ By George, it’s foggy!”
They were going, indeed, at a snail’s pace, and through the windows could see nothing but the faint glow of the street-lamps emerging slowly, high up, one by one. Michael let down a window, and leaned out.
“Where are we?”
“Gawd knows, sir.”
Michael coughed, put up the window again, and resumed his clutch of Fleur.
“By the way, Wastwater asked me if I’d read ‘Canthar.’ He says there’s a snorting cut-up of it in The Protagonist. It’ll have the usual effect–send sales up.”
“They say it’s very clever.”
“Horribly out of drawing–not fit for children, and tells adults nothing they don’t know. I don’t see how it can be justified.”
“Genius, my dear. If it’s attacked, it’ll be defended.”
“Sib Swan won’t have it–he says it’s muck.”
“Oh! yes; but Sib’s getting a back number.”
“That’s very true,” said Michael, thoughtfully. “By Jove! how fast things move, except in politics, and fog.”
Their cab had come to a standstill. Michael let down the window again.
“I’m fair lost, sir,” said the driver’s hoarse voice. “Ought to be near the Embankment, but for the life of me I can’t find the turning.” Michael buttoned his coat, put up the window again, and got out on the near side.
The night was smothered, alive only with the continual hootings of creeping cars. The black vapour, acrid and cold, surged into Michael’s lungs.
“I’ll walk beside you; we’re against the curb; creep on till we strike the river, or a bobby.”
The cab crept on, and Michael walked beside it, feeling with his foot for the curb.
The refined voice of an invisible man said: “This is sanguinary!”
“It is,” said Michael. “Where are we?”
“In the twentieth century, and the heart of civilisation.”
Michael laughed, and regretted it; the fog tasted of filth.
“Think of the police!” said the voice, “having to be out in this all night!”
“Splendid force, the police!” replied Michael. “Where are you, sir?”
“Here, sir. Where are you?”
It was the exact position. The blurred moon of a lamp glowed suddenly above Michael’s head. The cab ceased to move.
“If I could only smell the ‘Ouses of Parliament,” said the cabman. “They’ll be ‘avin’ supper there be now.”
“Listen!” said Michael–Big Ben was striking. “That was to our left.”
“At our back,” said the cabman.
“Can’t be, or we should be in the river; unless you’ve turned right round!”
“Gawd knows where I’ve turned,” said the cabman, sneezing. “Never saw such a night!”
“There’s only one thing for it–drive on until we hit something. Gently does it.”
The cabman started the cab, and Michael, with his hand on it, continued to feel for the curb with his foot.
“Steady!” he said, suddenly. “Car in front.” There was a slight bump.
“Nah then!” said a voice. “Where yer comin’? Cawn’t yer see?”
Michael moved up alongside of what seemed to be another taxi.
“Comin’ along at that pice!” said its driver; “and full moon, too!”
“Awfully sorry,” said Michael. “No harm done. You got any sense of direction left?”
“The pubs are all closed–worse luck! There’s a bloomin’ car in front o’ me that I’ve hit three times. Can’t make any impression on it. The driver’s dead, I think. Would yer go and look, Guv’nor?”
Michael moved towards the loom in front. But at that moment it gave way to the more universal blackness. He ran four steps to hail the driver, stumbled off the curb, fell, picked himself up and spun round. He moved along the curb to his right, felt he was going wrong, stopped, and called: “Hallo!” A faint “Hallo!” replied from–where? He moved what he thought was back, and called again. No answer! Fleur would be frightened! He shouted. Half a dozen faint hallos replied to him; and someone at his elbow said: “Don’t cher know where y’are?”
“No; do you?”
“What do you think?
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