Chapter IV: Twenty Strokes After (1)

"The green, the green," I shouted joyfully, in the manner of the ancient Greeks, though I was only on the edge of it.

"Go on," said Thomas.

I took a careful aim and put the white down.

"You see," I said carelessly, leaning on my putter.

STUMP CRICKET

April will soon be here," said Miss Middleton, with a sigh of happiness.

"Bless it," I agreed. "My favourite month. Twelve," I added conversationally, "is my lucky number, and Thursday the day of the week on which I do least work. When next the twelfth of April falls on a Thursday, which may not be for centuries, look out. Something terrific will happen."

"It's about now that one begins to wonder if one is in form, or likely to be."

"Just about now," I agreed. "I always say that when the draw is announced for the semi-finals of the English Cup, in which, of course, I take not the slightest interest whatever, and in fact hardly know what teams are left in for it, though I must say I hope Southampton wins this year, because, after all, Fry did play for them once, but they'll have a bit of a job to beat the Wolves you know--and then there's Newcastle and Fulham after that, and of course, you can't be ..."

"I'm tired of that sentence," said Miss Middleton.

"So was I. I only wanted to make it clear that I have no use for these spectacular gladiatorial combats. Give me cricket, the game of----"

Miss Middleton did not appear to be listening.

"Do you bowl as fast and as good a length as you talk?" she asked thoughtfully.

"No. More swerve perhaps. And I bowl with my head a good deal."

"I see. Quite different. Well, then, will you coach me this spring? Do, there's a dear."

"I should love to. I know all the things to say."

She got up excitedly.

"Come along then. I've got the rippingest bat. But you must promise not to bowl too fast."

I had said that I knew all the things to say, but as a matter of fact there is only one thing to say: "You should have come out to 'er, sir." (Or, I suppose, in Miss Middleton's case, "You should have come out to him, madam.") It's a silly remark to make, because it is just what one is always doing. At school I could come out to anything that was straight and not too high; the difficulty lay in staying in. Nobody ever told me how to do that.

Miss Middleton led the way to a walled-in tennis lawn, which lay next to the broccoli tops and things, and was kept away from it by only six feet of brick. If it had simply been a question of cabbage I should have said nothing, but there would be grapes there too.

"I know," said Miss Middleton. "But we must play against a wall. Don't bowl too much to leg."

I hadn't bowled since October the Fourth. The first post-October ball was a trifle over-pitched, and a little too much to the right. All the same I was just saying, "You should have come out to that one," when there was a crash from the direction of long-on.

"By Jove, I didn't know you were so good. Was that the grapes?"

"How awful! Yes. It simply seemed to fly off the bat. I did ask you not to bowl there, didn't I?"

She looked so penitent that I had to comfort her.

"It's all right," I said consolingly. "I had a man there. You would have been out all the way. Besides," I went on, "a little air will do the grapes good. They stay all the time in one hot room, and then when they go out into the cold, they don't muffle up, and the natural consequence is---- Or am I thinking of influenza?"

"Never mind. We must remember not to do it again, that's all. Give me some to cut."

There are several ways of cutting. For myself, I was taught to cut "square" with the left leg across and "late" with the right, the consequence being that I can do neither. W.G. (to work downwards) generally uses the fore-arm for the stroke, Ranji the wrist. Miss Middleton keeps both feet together and puts her whole body into it; and the direction in which the ball travels is towards long-on. There was another crash.

"Golf is your game," I said admiringly. "You lay it dead on the greenhouse every time."

"I say, what _shall_ we do? Father will be furious."

I looked at my watch.

"I can just catch the three-twenty-five," I said.

"Oh, don't be a coward, when it's all your fault for bowling so badly."

"Perhaps the glass is insured," I suggested. "It is generally."

"It's insured against hail," she said doubtfully.

I looked at the sky. It was one of the most beautiful blues I have seen.

"No," said Miss Middleton sadly.

"It will be a point for lawyers to argue, I fancy, what is actually meant by hail. You would probably define it at once as aqueous vapour cooled down in the atmosphere to the freezing point of water."

"I don't know. Perhaps I should."

"But 'hail' here obviously has a wider significance. I take it to mean 'anything that descends suddenly from the clouds.' I haven't 'Williams on Real Property' with me, but----"

"Come on," said Miss Middleton, "let's say it does mean that. And could you, _please_, keep them a bit more on the off?"

"It's no good my keeping them there if you don't."

The worst of coaching--I speak now as an expert--is that it is so difficult to know what to say when a lady whirls her bat twice round her head, gives a little shriek, gets the ball on the knee, and says, "What ought I to have done then?" The only answer I could think of was "Not that."

"I thought you knew all about coaching," she said scornfully.

"But, you see, it depends on what you were wanting to do," I said meekly. "If it was a drive you should have come out to it more, and if it was a cut you should have come down on it; while if it was a Highland fling you lacked _abandon_, and if you were killing a wasp----"

"A good coach would know what was the best thing to do with that particular ball, wouldn't he? And that's just what he would tell you."

"He wouldn't know," I said modestly. "You don't often meet that sort of ball in good cricket."

"No, I suppose not. That's why I didn't know what to do, I expect. You know I generally know exactly what to do, only I can't do it."

"Is that really so?" I cried excitedly. "Why, then, of course, you ought to coach _me_!"

* * * * * * *

We had a very jolly afternoon. I fancy I shall be in some form this year. Miss Middleton is one of the best bowlers I have seen, but I brought off some beautiful shots. I wanted some tea badly afterwards.

"What glorious days we have now," said Miss Middleton's mother, as she handed me a cup.

"Glorious," said Miss Middleton's father.

"H'm, yes," I said doubtfully. "But you know I'm afraid it won't last. It's beginning to look rather like--like hail."

"Yes," said Miss Middleton. "We both thought so."

EXPLORING

Come, gather around, my 'earties, and listen
a while to me,
For I 'ave a yarn to spin you, a yarn of the
Polar Sea;
It's as true as I'm standing here, lads, as true as it
blows a gale,
That I was the first as nearly burst a-finding the
Great Big Nail--
As sworn to by Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal
Merry del Val.

It was all of a parky morning that wunnerful fourth
of March,
When I put on a hextry weskit and made for the
Marble Arch;
So I sez good-bye to my country, "Lunnon," I sez,
"adoo!"
And I up and strode down the Edgware Road
athirsting to see it through,
Followed by Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal
Merry del Val.

I 'adn't no blooming gum-drops, I 'adn't no polar
bears,
I 'adn't no sextant neither, but I thinks to myself,
"'Oo cares?"
And I waggled my watch-chain jaunty, which was
jewelled in every hole.
"I can always steer by my cumpas 'ere, it's pointing
straight to the Pole."
_So_ it is!" said Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal
Merry del Val.

I walked for the 'ole of that morning, then I sez
to myself, "Old son,
This here is a dash-for-the-Pole like, and it's
darn little dash you've done."
So I enters an 'andy station, and I sez to the
man in the 'utch,
"'Ere, gimme a ticket as goes to Wick--no, a
first-return--'ow much?--
Ah, and five third singles for Etukishook, Gaukrodger,
J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the
Cardinal Merry del Val."

We sailed from Wick to the norrard for 'undreds
of days and nights.
Till we came at last to the ice-floes and followed the
Northern Lights,
The Horroreo-boreo-balis, which it turned us all
'orrible pale,
And I sez to my men, "To-morrow and then we
shall land at the Great Big Nail."
"'Ooray!" said Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,
Sir Fortescue Flannery and the Cardinal Merry
del Val.

'Twas the cumpas as went and found it--it seemed
to have turned its head,
It would spin like mad for a minute and then it
would lay like dead;
It took on just like a wild thing, you'd almost 'a'
sworn it cried,
Till at last it shot through the glass and got right up
on its end and died.
"That _proves_ it," cried Etukishook, Gaukrodger,
J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the
Cardinal Merry del Val.

We gave three cheers for ole England and we up
with the Union Jack,
And we plugged our pipes and we smoked
'em and we thought about getting back;
But a wunnerful pride so filled us as we sat on top
of the Ball,
That innocent tears (the first for years) rolled out
of the eyes of all.
Partikerlarly out of those of Etukishook, Gaukrodger,
J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the
Cardinal Merry del Val.

Then I called for a pen and paper, and I wrote to
the King, "Dear King,
"I've found the Pole, and I'm tying a piece of it up
with string;
I'll send it round in the morning for your Majesty's
grace to see
Just drop me a wire, if you like it, sire, and I'll
collar the lot! _Signed_: Me.
_Witnesses_: Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg, Sir
Fortescue Flannery and the Cardinal Merry
del Val."

So that's how it 'appened, my 'earties, no matter
what others may say.
(Did they _see_ the Pole? They didn't! That
_proves_ I 'ad took it away).
It's as true as I'm standing here, lads, as true as
_The Daily Mail_,
That I was the first as nearly burst a-finding the
Great Big Nail.

SHOPPING

"If you _should_ happen to be in Regent Street tomorrow at four" (ran the assignation), "just where what's the name of the street comes into it, and a lady in a very pretty new mauve coat and skirt bows to you, raise your hat and say 'Crisis' and she will let you help her with her shopping."

My guess at the name of the street was successful. I raised my hat and said "Good-afternoon."

"But you had to say 'Crisis,'" said Miss Middleton. "That's the password."

"I can't. I've sworn I'll never say it again. I took a most fearful oath. Several people heard me taking it, and swooned."

"But how do I know you're the right one if you don't say it? Well, I suppose I shall have to let you come. I've just lost mother; she went in at the silver department and out at the art fabrics--like people when they can't pay for their hansoms."

"Yes, that's bad. 'The accused, who appeared to feel her position acutely, gave a false address.' What are you going to buy?"

"Well, I thought I'd just help you get _your_ presents first."

"I'm not giving any this Christmas. I gave a lot only a year ago."

"Oh, but haven't they paid you any wages since then?"

"Yes, a few trifling sums, only---- Quick, there's your mother!" I pulled Miss Middleton hastily into the nearest shop and shut the door.

"What fun!" she said breathlessly. "Mother _loves_ hide-and-seek."

Mrs Middleton hurried past, covered with parcels, and dived into another door.

"It's quite safe now," I said. "Let's go and----"

"What can I have the pleasure of showing you?" said a soothing voice at our backs.

We turned round in alarm.

"Er--we only just--let me see, _what_ was it you wanted?" said Miss Middleton to me.

"I don't really want anything. I was going to help you buy one of those--you know."

"Yes, but I've got that. I know there was _something_ you said you wanted very much."

"Probably tea."

"Tiaras," explained Miss Middleton hastily. "Of course."

"Certainly, madam," said the shopwalker. "If you will just sit down," he continued, leading us to a little room out of the main stream of shoppers, "I will send somebody to attend you."

We sat down mechanically. I leant my stick against a showcase and balanced my hat on the top of it.

"Now you've done it," I said. "How many tiaras shall we have? I've got nearly four pounds."

"We needn't have any. We can say we don't much care about their selection."

"Or that we wanted one specially built for us."

"One goes into dozens of shops without buying _anything_," said Miss Middleton cheerily.

"I never do," I replied gloomily. "Look out, here he is."

An attendant advanced briskly towards us. I put my hands in my pockets and tried to count my money.

"Tiaras, madam? Certainly. About what price?"

"Tell him about three pounds eight and six," I whispered to Miss Middleton. "Three pounds nine," I corrected, as I ran another sixpence to ground.

"Here is a beautiful one at two hundred and fifty pounds."

"Too much," I prompted softly.

"Oh," broke in Miss Middleton brightly, "I'm so sorry--such a silly mistake! We wanted neck-chains, not tiaras! Barbara has a tiara already, hasn't she?" she appealed to me.

"Two," I said quickly. "If not three."

"I'm so sorry," said Miss Middleton, with a dazzling smile. "The first gentleman must have misunderstood. Of course we gave her a tiara last year."

The man was disappointed; I saw that. But the smile melted him, and he went off in all friendliness.

"Tiara doesn't sound very much like neck-chain," I remarked after a pause.

"Oh, don't you think so? It depends how you say it. Like Beauchamp and Cholmondeley."

"And what is it when pronounced properly?"

"It's a chain that hangs round your neck, and when you don't quite know what to say to anybody you play with it carelessly. Same as men smoking cigarettes, only better for you."

"I see. Well, here we have a hundred of the best."

The attendant got to business at once.

"This one," he said, holding up rather a jolly one, "comes out at ten guineas."

"Tell him," I whispered to Miss Middleton, "that we've only come out with three."

"That's _very_ pretty," she said. "Are those moon-stones?"

"Yes, madam. The fashionable stone this year."

"It's more for next year that we want it."

"I should say this season. I don't think you will find a prettier one than this, madam."

"It's very sweet. But aren't they unlucky, unless you happen to have been born in the right month?" She turned to me. "When is Barbara's birthday?"

"May," I said unhesitatingly. "I mean March."

"Anyhow," said Miss Middleton. "I know it's wrong for moonstones, because I was thinking of giving her some two years ago, and it had to "be opals instead."

"We both thought of it," I said.

Miss Middleton looked at me so admiringly that I began to get reckless.

"Besides, we don't know the size of her neck," I went on. "And she never smokes--I mean she never doesn't know what to say to anybody. So I think we should be making a mistake if we gave her this. I do indeed. Now if it had been anybody else but Barbara----"

The man looked from one to the other of us in bewilderment.

"If you could show us some hatpins instead?" said Miss Middleton hurriedly, before he could open his mouth.

"This is excellent," I said, as he retired in confusion; "we're working down well. All we've got to do now is to wait till he comes back and then say that we're sorry but we meant hairpins. With hair-pins you're practically there."

"Supposing they only had gold ones?"

"Then we should point out that they wouldn't go with Barbara's curiously-coloured hair. You leave this to me. I can finish it off now on my head. At the same time I'm sorry I'm not going to spend _anything_."

"Oh, but you are," said Miss Middleton. "You're going to give me and mother tea."

"Of course I am," I agreed.

* * * * * * *

After tea I went back to the shop by myself.

"I want," I said "a trifle for about three pounds. A moonstone pendant or something. Yes, that's very sweet. No, I'll take it with me."

They packed it in a pretty little box for me, and I'm going to send it to Miss Middleton on the twenty-fourth. I am putting in a card with the words "From Barbara" on it. As I said, I am not giving any presents myself this year, but I do think that Barbara should repay at least some of the kindnesses which have been showered upon her so wantonly.

CHESS

(The author cannot lay claim to any great technical knowledge of chess, but he fancies that he understands the spirit of the game. He feels that, after the many poems on the Boat Race, a few bracing lines on the Inter-University Chess Match would be a welcome change.)

This is the ballad of Edward Bray,
Captain of Catherine's, Cambridge Blue--
Oh, no one ever had just his way
Of huffing a bishop with KB2!

The day breaks fine, and the evenings brings
A worthy foe in the Oxford man--
A great finesser with pawns and things,
But quick in the loose when the game began.

The board was set, and the rivals tossed
But Fortune (alas!) was Oxford's friend.
"Tail," cried Edward, and Edward lost;
So Oxford played from the fireplace end.

We hold our breath, for the game's begun--
Oh, who so gallant as Edward Bray!
He's taken a bishop from KQ1,
And ruffed it--just in the Cambridge way!

Then Oxford castles his QB knight
(He follows the old, old Oxford groove;
Though never a gambit saw the light
That's able to cope with Edward's move).

The game went on, and the game was fast,
Oh, Oxford huffed and his King was crowned;
The exchange was lost, and a pawn was passed,
And under the table a knight was found!

Then Oxford chuckled; but Edward swore,
A horrible, horrible oath swore he;
And landed him one on the QB4,
And followed it up with an RQ3.

Time was called; with an air of pride
Up to his feet rose Edward Bray.
"Marker, what of the score?" he cried.
"What of the battle I've won this day?"

The score was counted; and Bray had won
By two in honours, and four by tricks,
And half of a bishop that came undone,
And all of a bishop on KQ6.

* * * * * *

Then here's to Chess: and a cheer again
For the man who fought on an April day
With never a thought of sordid gain!
England's proud of you, Edward Bray!

PROGRESSIVE BRIDGE

There were twelve tables numbered A, B, C, up to--well, twelve of them, and I started at E, because my name is Ernest. Our host arranged us and, of course, he may have had quite another scheme in his mind. If so, it was an extraordinary coincidence that my partner's name was Ethel. She herself swore it was Millicent, but I doubt if one can trust a woman in these matters. She looked just like an Ethel. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Ethel to me.

There is only one rule at progressive bridge, and that is, if you lose you go to the next table, and if you win you stay where you are. In any case you get a fresh partner each time. That being so, it seemed hardly worth while to ask Ethel what she discarded from. As it happened, though, she began it.

"I discard from strength," she said.

"So do I," I agreed gladly. We already had a lot in common. "Great strength returns the penny," I added.

"What's that?"

"Moderate strength rings the bell. It's a sort of formula I say to myself, and brings luck. May I play to hearts?"

Ethel discarded a small heart on the first round of clubs, and a small club on the first round of hearts. After which, systematically and together, we discarded from great weakness. What with the revoke and other things they scored hundreds and thousands that game.

"You know, where providence goes wrong," I said, "is in over-estimating our skill. Providence thinks too highly of us. It thinks that if it gives us a knave and two tens between us we can get a grand slam."

"Yes; and I think--I think, perhaps, that just the least little bit it underrates Dorothy's abilities."

"Indeed?" I said. Dorothy was the person who had just taken two hundred and ninety-eight off us.

"Yes. You see Dorothy has played before, and I don't think providence knew."

"It rather looks like that."

"Mind," said Ethel graciously, "I don't blame providence for not knowing."

Dorothy laughed, and cut for me. I dealt myself three aces, and went no trumps. To my surprise Dorothy's partner doubled, and led the ace of hearts.

"One moment," I said, and I took it up, and looked at the back of it. Then I looked at the back of my own ace of hearts. Then I looked at the front of it again, and swore very softly, and played it.

"I'm very sorry," I apologised at the end of the game. "I had a wolf in sheep's clothing, an ass in a lion's skin. You saw me play the three of hearts. Well, do you know--it's very sad--he actually pretended to be the ace. Hid his head behind one card, and his feet behind another, and only--well, I thought it was the ace."

At the end of the round Ethel and I moved on.

"Good-bye," I said to Dorothy, "I like watching you play. If you wait here I shall be round again soon."

My next partner was called Aggie. Ethel addressed her as Mary, but she was much too lively for Mary. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Aggie to me.

She began at once:

"I discard from weakness, partner. I like hearts led, I never go spades on my own, I live on tapioca and toadstools, and the consequence was----"

"It's the same with me," I said, "except about tapioca. I don't like tapioca. In fact I always--er--discard from tapioca. Otherwise we agree. It's your deal. Now," I said to Ethel, "we shall see what providence thinks of our comparative merits."

Providence made no mistake. In the whole round my partner and I scored once only. _Chicane_ in spades. I moved on to G. I should never see Ethel again.

"I always play the Canadian discard," said Violet, "and I like spades led."

I need hardly say that Aggie, whom Ethel called Mary, spoke of Violet as Diana. But she looked much more like Violet, and she will always be Violet to me. I had never seen her before though, and I shall never see her again.

"So do I," I said. "Do you know Canada at all? I always wish I had been there."

"I go a good deal to Switzerland," said Violet. "Are you fond of bridge?"

"No, never; that is, I mean, 'Very.' Shall we cut?"

The "Canadian discard" hardly does itself justice under that name. It is no mere discard, but embraces all the finer points of bridge. It leads through weakness, and blocks your partner's long suits, and trumps his tricks; and, though I couldn't discover any recognised system about it, revokes now and then. I, too, from tact or sympathy, or some such motive, played the Canadian discard for all I was worth. We got to H without any difficulty....

J, K and L may be passed by, for nothing happened there. For some reason "I" was left out, or, rather, run into J. I cannot understand the point of this. To every man his table, and I feel convinced that I should have done remarkably well at "I." I had been looking forward to it all the evening. I don't much care about betting, but I am prepared to wager a hundred pounds that I should have got a grand slam at "I."

It was somewhere down in the X's that I met Maud. I had been round I don't know how many times, and was feeling quite giddy. Alice, Elizabeth, Iris, Mabel--they were all forgotten when I came to play with Maud. Hepzibah (on my right) called her Millicent or something like that, but I knew really that her name must be Maud. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Maud to me.

"I discard from hearts," I said. "I like my weakest suit led, I have revoked three times this evening, at table G on the right-hand side of the fireplace I played the 'Canadian discard,' and I shall never play it again, at K as you go round the lamp I had four aces and my partner went spades, I've had rotten luck all through, and I'm enjoying myself very much. Shall we be very cautious, or would you like to play a dashing game?"

"Oh, let's dash," said Maud.

I dealt, and went no trumps on two aces. To my great surprise Hepzibah's partner doubled and led the ace of clubs.

"One moment," I said, and I took it up and looked at the back of it. Then I looked at the back of my own ace of clubs. Then I looked at the front of it, and swore very softly, and played it.

"I'm very sorry," I began at the end of the game, "but----"

"Haven't we met before?" said Maud, with a smile.

I looked at her hard. "By Jove! Ethel!" I cried.

"My name's Millicent," said Maud, "and seeing that we met for the first time a few hours ago----"

"Yes, you were my first partner, 'Ethel.'"

"I'm sorry. Who is Ethel?"

"I beg your pardon," I apologised. "But I always call my first partner at progressive bridge Ethel. It's a sort of hobby with me."

"I see," said Maud--I mean Ethel. Well, I suppose I must call her Millicent now. Though I had never seen her before, and shall never see her again, she will always be Millicent to me.

DRESSING UP

I. AT A PAGEANT

Our episode is the tenth and last and (I may add unofficially) the most important. The period of it is 1750. In order to lead up to it properly it has been found necessary to start the first episode at 53 B.C. This gives the audience time to get hungry for us. "At last!" they say, when we come on, "this _is_ the end, Maria."

The Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) says that they don't say that at all. They say, "Why, Henry, it's 1750! I had no idea. How the time flies when you are enjoying yourself. We _must_ stay to the end; a few minutes won't make any difference now, and it's only cold mutton."

I must explain that it is the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.)--and _do_ remember the "N.B.," because she is very particular about it--who in this episode condescends to dance a minuet with me: that stately old measure (if you don't trip over the sand-hill opposite Block D.) which so delighted our forefathers. It is a very sad thing, but though the whole pageant, as I have explained, hinges upon us, yet our names and description do not appear upon the programme. We are put down briefly, and I think libellously, as "Revellers." However, we learnt that we were really people of some position--right in the smart set, by all accounts; so I decided to be Lord Tunbridge Wells, and my partner the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.). That is just like her--to be a whole county, when I am only a watering-place.

We are supposed to do the "revelling" as soon as we come in. As I lead my partner down the steps I say to her, "Our revel, I think?" and she replies, "Shall we revel, or shall we sit it out?" After a little discussion we decide to revel, partly because there is nowhere to sit down, and partly because the prompter has his eye on us. Now I don't know what your idea of revelling is, but mine would include at the very least a small ginger ale and a slice of seed-cake. I mean, I don't think that would be overdoing it at all. But do you suppose we are allowed this--or indeed anything? Not likely. And yet it is just a little touch of that sort which gives verisimilitude to a whole pageant.

Before we have really got through our revelling the band strikes up, and suddenly we are all in our places for the minuet. Now, although you have paid your two guineas like a man, and are sitting in the very front row, you mustn't think we have taken all this trouble of learning the minuet simply to amuse you. Not at all. We are doing it for the sake of King George the Second, no less; a command performance. And so, when we are all in a line, just ready to start, and I whisper to my partner, "I say, I'm awfully sorry, but I've forgotten the minuet. Let's do the Lancers instead," she whispers back, "Quick! George is looking at me. Is my patch on straight?" "No," I say. "Now, don't forget you have to smile all the time. Hallo, we're off."

I am not going to describe the dance to you, because it is too difficult. But I may say briefly that there's a whole lot of things you do with your feet, and another whole lot with your hands; that you have to sway your body about in an easy and graceful manner; that you must keep one eye on the ground to see that you don't fall over the sandhills, and another eye on your partner to see that she is doing it all right, and the two of you a joint eye on everybody else to see that the affair is going symmetrically. And _then_--then comes the final instruction: "Don't look anxious. Smile, and seem to be enjoying yourself."

So far I have resisted the inclination to smile. The fact is that when I cast aside my usual habiliments and take upon me the personality of another I like to do the thing thoroughly--to enter into the spirit of the part. Now I will put the case before you, and you shall say whether I am not right.

Here we have, as I conceive the situation, a sprig of the nobility, Tunbridge Wells. He is a modest young man, who spends most of his time at his lovely Kentish seat, flanked by fine old forest trees--preferring the quiet of the country to the noise and bustle of London.

One day, however, he ventures up to town, and looking in at his customary coffee-house is hailed by an acquaintance. Tunbridge Wells, I may mention, is beautifully attired in a long blue coat, white satin waistcoat, fancy breeches, with quaint designs painted on them, silk stockings, and shoes which are too small for him.

"What are you doing to-night?" says his friend. "Come down to Chelsea with me. There's a grand Venetian _fête_ on, and old George will be there."

"Right," says Tunbridge Wells.

When they get to the gardens his friend takes him aside.

"I say," he begins anxiously, "I hope you won't mind, but the fact is that I've promised you shall dance in a minuet to-night. Old George particularly wants to see one."

"But I simply couldn't," says Tunbridge Wells, in alarm. "Can't you get somebody else?"

"Oh, but you must. I've got you a jolly partner--the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.). You know the minuet, of course?"

"Well, I've learnt it; but I've very nearly forgotten it again. And my shoes are beastly uncomfortable. Before the King too! It's a bit steep, you know."

"Well then, you will. Good man."

"No, no," cries Tunbridge Wells hastily, and leads his friend aside under the trees. "I say," he begins mysteriously, "don't say anything, but--well, it's rather awkward ... I may as well tell you ... these--er--these things are a bit tight. They look all right like this, you know, but when you bend down--well, I mean I have to be jolly careful."

"I was just thinking how pretty they were. A beautiful thing, that," he adds, pointing to a crescent moon in blue on Tunbridge Wells' left knee.

"Don't touch," says Wells in alarm, "it comes off like anything. I lost a dragon-fly only yesterday. Well, you see how it is, old man. But for them I should have loved it. Only ... I say, don't be a fool.... Your servant, Duchess. I was just saying ... yes, I am devoted to it.... Yes.... Yes. Let's see, it _is_ the left foot, isn't it? (Confound that idiot!)"

Now then, do you wonder that the poor fellow looks anxious, or that I feel it my duty as a good actor to look anxious too?

I have promised not to describe the whole minuet to you, but I must mention one figure in it of which I am particularly fond. In this you rejoin your partner after a long absence, and you have once more her supporting hand to hold you up. For some hours previously you have been alone in the wild and undulating open, tripping over molehills and falling down ha-has; and it is very pleasant (especially when your shoes fit you too soon) to get back to her and pour all your troubles into her sympathetic ear. It's a figure in which you stand on one foot each for a considerable time, and paw the air with the others. You preserve your balance better if you converse easily and naturally.

"I nearly came a frightful purler just now; did you see?"

"H'sh, not so loud. Have you found mother yet? She's here to-day."

"One of my patches fell off. I hope nobody heard it."

"You've got a different wig to-day. Why?"

"It's greyer. I had such a very anxious moment yesterday. You know that last bow at the end where you go down and stay under water for about five minutes? Well, I really thought--however, they didn't."

"I don't like you in this one. It doesn't suit you at all."

"So I thought at first. But if you gaze at it very earnestly for three hours, and then look up at the ceiling, you----"

"Why, there _is_ mother. Hold up."

"I fancy we have rather a good action in this figure. Do you think she's noticing it? I hope she knows that we _could_ stand on one leg without moving the other one at all. I mean I don't want her to think---- Hallo, here we are. Good-bye. See you again in the next figure but one." And the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) trips off.

I put in the "N.B." because she is very particular about it; and I say "trips" because I know the ground.

II. AT A DANCE

"Then you really are coming?" said Queen Elizabeth, as she gave me my third cup of tea.

"Yes, I really am," I sighed.

"What as?"

"I don't know at all--something with a cold. I leave it to you, partner, only don't go a black suit."

"What about Richelieu?"

"I should never be able to pronounce that," I confessed. "Besides, I always think that these great scientists--I should say, philos--that is, of course, that these generals--er, which room is the encyclopædia in?"

"You might go as one of the kings of England. Which is your favourite king?"

"William and Mary. Now that _would_ be an original costume. I should have----"

"Don't be ridiculous. Why not Henry VIII.?"

"Do you think I should get a lot of partners as Henry VIII.? Anyhow, I don't think it's a very becoming figure."

"But you don't wear fancy dress simply because it's becoming."

"Well, that is rather the point to settle. Are we going to enhance my natural beauty, or would you like it--er--toned down a little? Of course, I _could_ go as the dog-faced man, only----"

"Very well then, if you don't like Henry, what about Edward I.?"

"But why do you want to thrust royalty on me? I'd much sooner go as Perkin Warbeck. I should wear a brown perkin--jerkin."

"Jack is going as Sir Walter Raleigh."

"Then I shall certainly touch him for a cigarette," I said, as I got up to go.

* * * * * * *

It was a week later that I met Elizabeth in Bond Street.

"Well?" she said, "have you got your things?"

"I haven't," I confessed.

"I forget who you said you were going as?"

"Somebody who had black hair," I said. "I have been thinking it over and I have come to the conclusion that I should have knocked them rather if I had had black hair--instead of curly eyes and blue hair. Can you think of anybody for me?"

Queen Elizabeth regarded me as sternly as she might have regarded---- Well, I'm not very good at history.

"Do you mean to say," she said at last, "that that is as far as you have got? Somebody who had black hair?"

"Hang it," I protested, "it's something to have been measured for the wig."

"_Have_ you been measured for your wig?"

"Well--er--no--that is to say, not exactly what you might call measured. But--well, the fact is I was just going along now, only--I say, where do I get a wig?"

"You've done nothing," said Elizabeth--"absolutely nothing."

"I say, don't say that," I began nervously; "I've done an awful lot, really. I've practically got the costume. I'm going as Harold the Boy Earl, or Jessica's Last---- Hallo, there's my bus; I've got a cold, I mustn't keep it waiting. Good-bye." And I fled.

* * * * * * *

"I am going," I said, "as Julius Cæsar. He was practically bald. Think how cool that will be."

"Do you mean to say," cried Elizabeth, "that you have altered again?"

"Don't be rough with me or I shall cry. I've got an awful cold."

"Then you've no business to go as Julius Cæsar."

"I say, now you're trying to unsettle me. And I was going to-morrow to order the clothes."

"What! You haven't----"

"I was really going this afternoon, only--only it's early closing day. Besides, I wanted to see if my cold would get better. Because if it didn't---- Look here, I'll be frank with you. I am going as Charlemagne."

"Oh!"

"Charlemagne in half-mourning, because Pepin the Short had just died. Something quiet in grey, with a stripe, I thought. Only half-mourning because he only got half the throne. By-the-way I suppose all these people wore pumps and white kid gloves all right? Yes, I thought so. I wonder if Charlemagne really had black hair. Anyhow, they can't prove he didn't, seeing when he lived. He flourished about 770, you know. As a matter of fact 770 wasn't actually his most flourishing year, because the Radicals were in power then, and land went down so. Now 771--yes. Or else as Raymond Blathwayt."

"Anyhow," I added indignantly a minute later, "I swear I'm going somehow."

* * * * * * *

"Hallo," I said cheerfully, as I ran into her Majesty in Piccadilly, "I've just been ordering--that is to say, I've been going----I mean I'm just going to---- Let's see, it's next week, isn't it?"

For a moment Elizabeth was speechless--not at all my idea of the character.

"Now then," she said at last, "I am going to take you in hand. Will you trust yourself entirely to me?"

"To the death, your Majesty. I'm sickening for something, as it is."

"How tall are you?"

"Oh, more than that," I said quickly. "Gent's large medium, I am."

"Then, I'll order a costume for you and have it sent round. There's no need for you to be anything historical; you might be a butcher."

"Quite--blue is my colour. In fact, I can do you the best end of the neck at tenpence, madam, if you'll wait a moment while I sharpen the knife. Let's see; you like it cut on the cross, I think? Bother, they've forgotten the strop."

"Well, it may not be a butcher," said Elizabeth; "it depends what they've got."

* * * * * * *

That was a week ago. This morning I was really ill at last; had hardly any breakfast; simply couldn't look a poached egg in the yolk. A day on the sofa in a darkened room and bed at seven o'clock was my programme. And then my eye caught a great box of clothes, and I remembered that the dance was to-night. I opened the box. Perhaps dressed soberly as a black-haired butcher I could look in for an hour or two ... and----

_Help!_

A yellow waistcoat, pink breeches, and--no, it's not an eider-down, it's a coat.

_A yellow---- Pink br----_

I am going as Joseph.

I am going as Swan & Edgar.

I am going as the Sick Duke, by Orchardson.

I am going--yes, that's it, I am going back to bed.

AFTER DINNER

I. THE COMPLETE KITCHEN

I wat in the drawing-room after dinner with my knees together and my hands in my lap, and waited for the game to be explained to me.

"There's a pencil for you," said somebody.

"Thank you very much," I said, and put it carefully away. Evidently I had won a forfeit already. It wasn't a very good pencil though.

"Now, has everybody got pencils?" asked somebody else. "The game is called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' It's quite easy. Will somebody think of a letter?" She turned to me. "Perhaps you'd better."

"Certainly," I said, and I immediately thought very hard of N. These thought-reading games are called different things, but they are all the same really, and I don't believe in any of them.

"Well?" said everybody.

"What? ... Yes, I have. Go on.... Oh, I beg your pardon," I said in confusion. I thought you---- N. is the letter."

"N or M?"

I smiled knowingly to myself.

"My godfather and my godmother," I went on cautiously----

"It was N," interrupted somebody. "Now then, you've got five minutes in which to write down everything you can beginning with N. Go." And they all started to write like anything.

I took my pencil out and began to think. I know it sounds an easy game to you now, as you sit at your desk surrounded by dictionaries; but when you are squeezed on to the edge of a sofa, given a very blunt pencil and a thin piece of paper, and challenged to write in five minutes (on your knees) all the words you can think of beginning with a certain letter--well, it is another matter altogether. I thought of no end of things which started with K, or even L; I thought of "rhinoceros," which is a very long word and starts with R; but as for----

I looked at my watch and groaned. One minute gone.

"I _must_ keep calm," I said, and in a bold hand I wrote _Napoleon_. Then, after a moment's thought, I added _Nitro-glycerine_, and _Nats_.

"This is splendid," I told myself. "_Notting Hill_, _Nobody_ and _Noon_. That makes six."

At six I stuck for two minutes. I did worse than that in fact; for I suddenly remembered that gnats were spelt with a G. However, I decided to leave them, in case nobody else remembered. And on the fourth minute I added _Non-sequitur_.

"Time!" said somebody.

"Just a moment," said everybody. They wrote down another word or two (which isn't fair) and then began to add up. "I've got thirty," said one.

"Thirty-two."

"Twenty-five."

"Good heavens," I said, "I've only got seven."

There was a shout of laughter.

"Then you'd better begin," said somebody. "Read them out."

I coughed doubtfully, and began;

"_Napoleon._"

There was another shout of laughter.

"I am afraid we can't allow that."

"Why ever not?" I asked in amazement.

"Well, you'd hardly find him in a kitchen, would you?"

I took out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. "I don't want to find him in a kitchen," I said nervously. "Why should I? As a matter of fact, he's dead. I don't see what the kitchen's got to do with it. Kitchens begin with a K."

"But the game is called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' You have to make a list of things beginning with N which you would find in a kitchen. You understood that, didn't you?"

"Y-y-yes," I said. "Oh y-y-y-yes. Of course."

"So Napoleon----"

I pulled myself together with a great effort.

"You don't understand," I said with dignity. "The cook's name was Napoleon."

"Cooks aren't called Napoleon," said everybody.

"This one was. Carrie Napoleon. Her mistress was just as surprised at first as you were, but Carrie assured her that----"

"No, I'm afraid we can't allow it."

"I'm sorry," I said; "I'm wrong about that. Her name was Carrie Smith. But her young man was a soldier, and she had bought a 'Life of Napoleon' for a birthday present for him. It stood on the dresser--it did, really--waiting for her next Sunday out."

"Oh! Oh, well, I suppose that is possible. Go on."

"_Gnats_," I went on nervously and hastily. "Of course I know that----"

"Gnats are spelt with a G," they shrieked.

"These weren't. They had lost the G when they were quite young, and consequently couldn't bite at all, and cook said that----"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"I'm sorry," I said resignedly. "I had about forty of them--on the dresser. If you won't allow any of them, it pulls me down a lot. Er--then we have Nitro-glycerine."

There was another howl of derision.

"Not at all," I said haughtily. "Cook had chapped hands very badly, and she went to the chemist's one evening for a little glycerine. The chemist was out, and his assistant--a very nervous young fellow--gave her nitro-glycerine by mistake. It stood on the dresser, it did, really."

"Well," said everybody very reluctantly, "I suppose----"

I went on hastily:

"That's two. Then _Nobody_. Of course, you might easily find nobody in the kitchen. In fact you would pretty often, I should say. Three. The next is _Noon_. It could be noon in the kitchen as well as anywhere else. Don't be narrow-minded about that."

"All right. Go on."

"_Non-sequitur_," I said doubtfully.

"What on earth----"

"It's a little difficult to explain, but the idea is this. At most restaurants you can get a second help of anything for half-price, and that is technically called a 'follow.' Now, if they didn't give you a follow, that would be a _Non-sequitur_.... You do see that, don't you?"

There was a deadly silence.

"Five," I said cheerfully. "The last is _Notting Hill_. I must confess," I said magnanimously, "that I am a bit doubtful whether you would actually find Notting Hill in a kitchen."

"You _don't_ say so!"

"Yes. My feeling is that you would be more likely to find the kitchen in Notting Hill. On the other hand, it is just possible that, as Calais was found engraven on Mary's heart, so, supposing the cook died---- Oh, very well. Then it remains at five."

Of course you think that, as I only had five, I came out last. But you are wrong. There is a pleasing rule in this game that, if you have any word in your list which somebody else has, you cannot count it. And as all the others had the obvious things--such as a nutmeg-grater or a neck of mutton or a nomelette--my five won easily. And you will note that, if only I had been allowed to count my gnats, it would have been forty-five.

II. GETTING THE NEEDLE

He was a pale, enthusiastic young man of the name of Simms; and he held forth to us at great length about his latest hobby.

"Now I'll just show you a little experiment," he wound up; "one that I have never known to fail. First of all, I want you to hide a needle somewhere, while I am out of the room. You must stick it where it can be seen--on a chair--or on the floor if you like. Then I shall come back and find it."

"Oh, Mr Simms!" we all said.

"Now, which one of you has the strongest will?"

We pushed Jack forward. Jack is at any rate a big man.

"Very well. I shall want you to take my hand when I come in, and look steadily at the needle, concentrate all your thoughts on it. I, on the other hand, shall make my mind a perfect blank. Then your thoughts will gradually pass into my brain, and I shall feel myself as it were dragged in the direction of the needle."

"And I shall feel myself, as it were, dragged after you?" said Jack.

"Yes; you mustn't put any strain on my arm at all. Let me go just where I like, only will me to go in the right direction. Now then."

He took out his handkerchief, put it hastily back, and said: "First, I shall want to borrow a handkerchief or something."

Well, we blindfolded him, and led him out of the room. Then Muriel got a needle, which, after some discussion, was stuck into the back of the Chesterfield. Simms returned, and took Jack's left hand.

They stood there together, Jack frowning earnestly at the needle, and Simms swaying uncertainly at the knees. Suddenly his knees went in altogether, and he made a little zig-zag dash across the room, as though he were taking cover. Jack lumbered after him, instinctively bending his head too. They were brought up by the piano, which Simms struck with great force. We all laughed, and Jack apologised.

"You told me to let you go where you liked, you know," he said.

"Yes, yes," said Simms rather peevishly, "but you should have willed me not to hit the piano."

As he spoke he tripped over a small stool, and, flinging out an arm to save himself, swept two photograph frames off an occasional table.

"By Jove!" said Jack, "that's jolly good. I saw you were going to do that, and I willed that the flower vase should be spared. I'm getting on."

"I think you had better start from the door again," I suggested. "Then you can get a clear run."

They took up their original positions.

"You must think hard, please," said Simms again. "My mind is a perfect blank, and yet I can feel nothing coming."

Jack made terrible faces at the needle. Then, without warning, Simms flopped on to the floor at full length, pulling Jack after him.

"You mustn't mind if I do that," he said, getting up slowly.

"No," said Jack, dusting himself.

"I felt irresistibly compelled to go down," said Simms.

"So did I," said Jack.

"The needle is very often hidden in the floor, you see. You are sure you are looking at it?"

They were in a corner with their backs to it; and Jack, after trying in vain to get it over his right shoulder or his left, bent down and focussed it between his legs. This must have connected the current; for Simms turned right round and marched up to the needle.

"There!" he said triumphantly, taking off the bandage.

We all clapped, while Jack poured himself out a whisky. Simms turned to him.

"You have a very strong will indeed," he said, "one of the strongest I have met. Now, would one of the ladies like to try?"

"Oh, I'm sure I couldn't," said all the ladies.

"I should like to do it again," said Simms modestly. "Perhaps you, sir?"

"All right, I'll try," I said.

When Simms was outside I told them my idea.

"I'll hold the needle in my other hand," I said, "and then I can always look at it easily, and it will always be in a different place, which ought to muddle him."

We fetched him in, and he took my left hand....