Part 49 (1/2)

”How do they fit it in with the rest of their lives?” Wilkins speculated. ”I suppose there's Pekin-stained police officers, Pekin-stained J. P.'s--trying petty pilferers in the severest manner.”...

Then for a time things became preposterous. There was a sudden cascade of water by the fireplace, and then absurdly the ceiling began to rain upon us, first at this point and then that. ”My new suit!” cried some one. ”Perrrrrr-up pe-rr”--a new vertical line of blackened water would establish itself and form a spreading pool upon the gleaming cloth. The men nearest would arrange catchment areas of plates and flower bowls.

”Draw up!” said Tarvrille, ”draw up. That's the bad end of the table!”

He turned to the imperturbable butler. ”Take round bath towels,” he said; and presently the men behind us were offering--with inflexible dignity--”Port wine, Sir. Bath towel, Sir!” Waulsort, with streaks of blackened water on his forehead, was suddenly reminded of a wet year when he had followed the French army manoeuvres. An animated dispute sprang up between him and Neal about the relative efficiency of the new French and German field guns. Wra.s.sleton joined in and a little drunken shrivelled Oxford don of some sort with a black-splashed s.h.i.+rt front who presently silenced them all by the immensity and particularity of his knowledge of field artillery. Then the talk drifted to Sedan and the effect of dead horses upon drinking-water, which brought Wra.s.sleton and Weston Ma.s.singhay into a dispute of great vigour and emphasis. ”The trouble in South Africa,” said Weston Ma.s.singhay, ”wasn't that we didn't boil our water. It was that we didn't boil our men. The Boers drank the same stuff we did. THEY didn't get dysentery.”

That argument went on for some time. I was attacked across the table by a man named Burshort about my Endowment of Motherhood schemes, but in the gaps of that debate I could still hear Weston Ma.s.singhay at intervals repeat in a rather thickened voice: ”THEY didn't get dysentery.”

I think Evesham went early. The rest of us cl.u.s.tered more and more closely towards the drier end of the room, the table was pushed along, and the area beneath the extinguished conflagration abandoned to a tinkling, splas.h.i.+ng company of pots and pans and bowls and baths.

Everybody was now disposed to be hilarious and noisy, to say startling and aggressive things; we must have sounded a queer clamour to a listener in the next room. The devil inspired them to begin baiting me.

”Ours isn't the Tory party any more,” said Burshort. ”Remington has made it the Obstetric Party.”

”That's good!” said Weston Ma.s.singhay, with all his teeth gleaming; ”I shall use that against you in the House!”

”I shall denounce you for abusing private confidences if you do,” said Tarvrille.

”Remington wants us to give up launching Dreadnoughts and launch babies instead,” Burshort urged. ”For the price of one Dreadnought--”

The little shrivelled don who had been omniscient about guns joined in the baiting, and displayed himself a venomous creature. Something in his eyes told me he knew Isabel and hated me for it. ”Love and fine thinking,” he began, a little thickly, and knocking over a wine-gla.s.s with a too easy gesture. ”Love and fine thinking. Two things don't go together. No philosophy worth a d.a.m.n ever came out of excesses of love.

Salt Lake City--Piggott--Ag--Agapemone again--no works to matter.”

Everybody laughed.

”Got to rec'nise these facts,” said my a.s.sailant. ”Love and fine think'n pretty phrase--attractive. Suitable for p'litical dec'rations. Postcard, Christmas, gilt lets, in a wreath of white flow's. Not oth'wise valu'ble.”

I made some remark, I forget what, but he overbore me.

Real things we want are Hate--Hate and COa.r.s.e think'n. I b'long to the school of Mrs. F's Aunt--”

”What?” said some one, intent.

”In 'Little Dorrit,'” explained Tarvrille; ”go on!”

”Hate a fool,” said my a.s.sailant.

Tarvrille glanced at me. I smiled to conceal the loss of my temper.

”Hate,” said the little man, emphasising his point with a clumsy fist.

”Hate's the driving force. What's m'rality?--hate of rotten goings on. What's patriotism?--hate of int'loping foreigners. What's Radicalism?--hate of lords. What's Toryism?--hate of disturbance. It's all hate--hate from top to bottom. Hate of a mess. Remington owned it the other day, said he hated a mu'll. There you are! If you couldn't get hate into an election, d.a.m.n it (hic) people wou'n't poll. Poll for love!--no' me!”

He paused, but before any one could speak he had resumed.

”Then this about fine thinking. Like going into a bear pit armed with a tagle--talgent--talgent galv'nometer. Like going to fight a mad dog with Shasepear and the Bible. Fine thinking--what we want is the thickes'

thinking we can get. Thinking that stands up alone. Taf Reform means work for all, tha.s.sort of thing.”

The gentleman from Cambridge paused. ”YOU a flag!” he said. ”I'd as soon go to ba'ell und' wet tissue paper!”

My best answer on the spur of the moment was:

”The j.a.panese did.” Which was absurd.