MR. CATO’S work was no light matter. He followed the case in every stage; he explained it all to the solicitors, and re-explained it to different layers of barristers. Every new document was submitted to him for revision. He was tormented all the time by anxiety for the future; his fortune was not a large one, and he had to reduce his capital to a very serious extent in order to meet the preliminary expenses of the case. The Prince, his guest, must indeed miss no comfort in his house; but in every other respect he enjoined the strictest economy on his sisters.
There were other things also to be thought of. The Prince’s ignorance on many subjects was astonishing; his questions showed it. This was, of course, natural in a native; but if he was to be a social success in England, then, in spite of his age, it was necessary that he should have some education. The Prince raised no objection. He had taken quite a fancy to Miss Briscoe, who appeared at first in the character of a guest at lunch, with no suggestion of the governess about her. A big genial woman of fifty, with thick black eyebrows, and an indomitable belief in the Christian fellowship of all men in this wonderful world, she brought light into Dwala’s life.
For it must be confessed that the Prince’s first impression of this long-desired civilisation was one of disappointment. It was undoubtedly dull in Mr. Cato’s house. Mr. Cato was out all day; and though his aunt was a dear old lady in her way, and his sisters two of the most charitable creatures in the neighbourhood, nobody would have called them lively company for a Missing Link. The indoor life told upon his health; the clockwork regularity of the daily round and the entire absence of events reduced his spirits to the lowest depth. He had been accustomed in his childhood to the happy vicissitudes of forest life; to the pleasure of escaping thunderstorms and beasts of prey; to the relief of calm sleep after weeks of storm-rocked trees; to the wild delight after long hunger of finding more than he could eat. It maddened him to hear these old ladies chattering over tiny pulsations of monotony as it they were events; to hear them discussing the paltry British weather under an impervious roof; to hear them talk of burglars in the next parish as if they were tigers on the lower branches; to learn that Julia’s quarrel with Mrs. Armstrong had ended in changing her doctor, when he had pictured her tearing handfuls of fur out of Mrs. Armstrong’s back. He longed to throttle the smug butcher who brought the daily tray of meat, robbing life of all the pleasure of desire.
When he first arrived the Prince had been so easily amused. It was enough for him to sit at a window and watch the men mending the road; to follow the housemaid from room to room and see her make the beds; to help to screw a leaf into the dining-room table; to dust Mr. Cato’s books. It was, therefore, a great surprise to his host when he blurted this out one evening. Had it been one of his nephews from the country—his youngest sister married the Rector of Woolcombing—Mr. Cato would have known what to do; he would have treated him to some of those amusements which are provided for country nephews; taken him to the British Museum, South Kensington, the Tower of London, or the College of Mining in Jermyn Street; he would have contrived little outings on omnibuses, ending with tea at an Aërated Bread shop. But the Prince seemed too old for these things; the weather was bad; Mr. Cato was busy, and he had determined to keep him at Hampstead till things had settled down and he knew his proper social value.