CHAPTER II
TOUCHES UPON A MATTER OF GRAVE PUBLIC
IMPORTANCE
OF what crime, do you suppose, has S. of P. been guilty? It was merely that in a public print he had ventured to ask why the payment of the nominal sum of seven and sixpence per annum conferred upon the dogs of London certain privileges in respect of its pavements which society at large, for some little time past, has ceased to claim.
The resources of civilization were ranged already against Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth. Nice-minded women in point lace refused to meet the self-constituted champion of public amenity; the black-velveted mistresses of the Flossies and the Fidos thought the state of his mind must be unpleasant; he was an object of contumely where all that was fair and of good report held sway in the life of the metropolis.
It was a pretty quarrel, and both sides were sustaining it with spirit. The Pro-Darlings, with Verax and a Lover of Animals at their head, had rejoined with mannerly vituperation to the polished sarcasm of the Anti-Darlings. What is your remedy? had inquired the Friends of Fido with a rather obvious sneer. Banish the dumb creation from the pavements of great cities, had replied Inspired Commonsense.
And for our own poor part, Commissioners of the Office of Works, we think that reply is worth a statue.
Verax was making merry though at the expense of a public ornament, and the occupant of Messrs. Maple’s best hearthrug, who remembered Verax perfectly well as a grubby infant at his private school, had already formed the pious resolve of putting the fear of God into Verax.
S. of P., having pondered long, sat down at his writing-table; dipped his quill with a certain inherent natural grandeur, and started out on his crushing reply:—“Sir, I have read with amazement the diatribe against my humble and unworthy self which appears under the signature of Verax, to which you have extended the generous hospitality of your columns.”
At this point S. of P. bit his quill with such violence that a large blot was shaken from the end of it upon the monogram which decorated the communication.
“The problem as I envisage it”—S. of P. took a small gold pencil out of his waistcoat pocket and made a note on his blotting pad. “The problem as I envisage it”—but the problem that he did envisage was the Suffolk Colthurst, who at that moment entered the room.
The Suffolk Colthurst was large and blonde—so large and so blonde that to a profane mind she rather conveyed the suggestion of a particularly well-grown cauliflower.
“Wally, please, don’t let me spoil your morning. Don’t let me interrupt you, please.”
The voice of the Suffolk Colthurst was really quite agreeable, although a little light in the upper register. You might even call it flutelike if you cared to indulge in metaphor.
“Not at all, Agatha,” said S. of P. with excellent chest resonance. “I am merely envisaging the problem of the—ah—”
“Don’t, Wally.” The voice of the Suffolk Colthurst was perhaps a shade less flutelike if history really calls for these nuances. “You are making yourself ridiculous. Please drop the subject.”
“No, Agatha.” The sun setting over Africa might be compared to the brow of the great Proconsul. “Man in The Thunderer most impertinent. Signs himself Verax. Suspect it’s that fellow—”
“Wally.” The Suffolk Colthurst roared here a little less gently than usual. “I will not uphold you! Everybody thinks it is most injudicious.”
“Everybody, Agatha?”
“Paul and Millicent consider—”
“Public health, Agatha, public dec—”
“Wally, once for all, I absolutely refuse to discuss the subject. I will not have you make yourself ridiculous.”
The Suffolk Colthurst, with an approximation to natural majesty, put on a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses which were suspended round her neck by a cord, and took the Leading Morning Journal off the First Baron’s table.
“Impertinent, certainly. Sarcasm, I suppose.”
“Suspect it’s that fellow Huffham, because I declined to propose him under Rule Two.”
“Certainly you do appear to have laid yourself open, but the letter is most ill-natured.”
“As though I should be likely to propose him. Known the man all my life.”
The Suffolk Colthurst gathered her majestic inches for the ultimatum.
“Wally, you must listen to me. This matter has already gone too far. Let it drop. It is the first time I have known you go out of your way to make yourself ridiculous.”
“Public health, Agatha, public decency.”
“Leave it to the County Council.”
“They are not competent to envisage such a problem as this. And I am determined, in the face of that letter—”
“Paul says that no man can afford to make himself a public laughing-stock.”
“Paul’s a coward.”
“Paul says they are certain to make you an Apostle.”
“Eh?”
“If you don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“Paul said that! Why, pray, should they make me an Apostle?”
“Because there’s nobody else; and people will say the race has already passed its zenith if the vacancy is not filled up at once.”
“I will say this for Paul—he is well-informed as a rule.”
“Wait, Wally, until you are an Apostle.”
“Very well then, with the greatest possible reluctance I yield the point for the present. Verax shall wait until—Tell me, Agatha, what have you to say to me?”
The good, the noble—forgive our fervor, O ye Liberal organs of opinion, even if your bosoms be not thrilled by this whole-souled devotion to the public weal—the good and noble Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth flung the offending print upon Messrs. Maple’s expensive carpet in a sudden uncontrollable access of private pique.
“Agatha.” The accents of the great Proconsul were choked with emotion. “Tell me, Agatha, what you have to say to me?”
“Wally,” said the Suffolk Colthurst, “what I have to say to you is this.”