Part 28 (2/2)
”Saddle of mutton,” said he after profound reflection; ”and cider to drink. That's the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don't you agree?”
”Yes,” said Margaret, who didn't. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilc.o.x's direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the ”No, I didn't; yes, you did”
type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.
”It's a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere's my motto.”
”Perhaps it does make life more human.”
”Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year's end to year's end.”
”Have you been in the East?”
”Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one's memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How's your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?”
”No, I'm house-hunting, Mr. Wilc.o.x, as I've already told you once. Do you know of any houses?”
”Afraid I don't.”
”Well, what's the point of being practical if you can't find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them.”
”Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for her!”
”What's that, father?”
”I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can't.”
”Percy, do you know of anything?”
”I can't say I do,” said Mr. Cahill.
”How like you! You're never any good.”
”Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!”
”Well, you aren't. Miss Schlegel, is he?”
The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, and while Mr. Wilc.o.x made some preliminary inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nouris.h.i.+ng for imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones.
Sc.r.a.ps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. ”Right you are! I'll cable out to Uganda this evening,” came from the table behind. ”Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it,” was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. ”Next time,” she said to Mr. Wilc.o.x, ”you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles's.”
”With pleasure.”
”No, you'd hate it,” she said, pus.h.i.+ng her gla.s.s towards him for some more cider. ”It's all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura.”
”A what?”
”Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?”
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