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 a 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.”
“Tither’s 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.”