Part 3 (1/2)
The celebrity paused in the act of lowering another segment of cake.
”Dam good,” he replied, cordially.
”I suppose you have travelled all over the country by this time?”
”You said it,” agreed the Thinker.
”Have you met many of our great public men?”
”Yais--Yais--Quite a few of the nibs--Lloyid Gorge, I meet him. But----”
Beneath the matting a discontented expression came into his face, and his voice took on a peevish note. ”But I not meet your real great men--your Arbmishel, your Arreevadon--I not meet them. That's what gives me the pipovitch. Have _you_ ever met Arbmishel and Arreevadon?”
A strained, anguished look came into Mrs. Smethurst's face and was reflected in the faces of the other members of the circle. The eminent Russian had sprung two entirely new ones on them, and they felt that their ignorance was about to be exposed. What would Vladimir Brusiloff think of the Wood Hills Literary Society? The reputation of the Wood Hills Literary Society was at stake, trembling in the balance, and coming up for the third time. In dumb agony Mrs. Smethurst rolled her eyes about the room searching for someone capable of coming to the rescue. She drew blank.
And then, from a distant corner, there sounded a deprecating, cough, and those nearest Cuthbert Banks saw that he had stopped twisting his right foot round his left ankle and his left foot round his right ankle and was sitting up with a light of almost human intelligence in his eyes.
”Er----” said Cuthbert, blus.h.i.+ng as every eye in the room seemed to fix itself on him, ”I think he means Abe Mitch.e.l.l and Harry Vardon.”
”Abe Mitch.e.l.l and Harry Vardon?” repeated Mrs. Smethurst, blankly. ”I never heard of----”
”Yais! Yais! Most! Very!” shouted Vladimir Brusiloff, enthusiastically.
”Arbmishel and Arreevadon. You know them, yes, what, no, perhaps?”
”I've played with Abe Mitch.e.l.l often, and I was partnered with Harry Vardon in last year's Open.”
The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier.
”You play in ze Open? Why,” he demanded reproachfully of Mrs.
Smethurst, ”was I not been introducted to this young man who play in opens?”
”Well, really,” faltered Mrs. Smethurst. ”Well, the fact is, Mr.
Brusiloff----”
She broke off. She was unequal to the task of explaining, without hurting anyone's feelings, that she had always regarded Cuthbert as a piece of cheese and a blot on the landscape.
”Introduct me!” thundered the Celebrity.
”Why, certainly, certainly, of course. This is Mr.----.”
She looked appealingly at Cuthbert.
”Banks,” prompted Cuthbert.
”Banks!” cried Vladimir Brusiloff. ”Not Cootaboot Banks?”
”_Is_ your name Cootaboot?” asked Mrs. Smethurst, faintly.