17. Sunday Supper
The cab took them back to the flat, at considerable expense, and Psmithrequested Mike to make tea, a performance in which he himself wasinterested purely as a spectator. He had views on the subject oftea-making which he liked to expound from an armchair or sofa, but henever got further than this. Mike, his back throbbing dully from theblow he had received, and feeling more than a little sore all over,prepared the Etna, fetched the milk, and finally produced the finishedarticle.
Psmith sipped meditatively.
'How pleasant,' he said, 'after strife is rest. We shouldn't haveappreciated this simple cup of tea had our sensibilities remainedunstirred this afternoon. We can now sit at our ease, like warriorsafter the fray, till the time comes for setting out to Comrade Waller'sonce more.'
Mike looked up.
'What! You don't mean to say you're going to sweat out to Claphamagain?'
'Undoubtedly. Comrade Waller is expecting us to supper.'
'What absolute rot! We can't fag back there.'
'Noblesse oblige. The cry has gone round the Waller household, "Jacksonand Psmith are coming to supper," and we cannot disappoint them now.Already the fatted blanc-mange has been killed, and the table creaksbeneath what's left of the midday beef. We must be there; besides,don't you want to see how the poor man is? Probably we shall find himin the act of emitting his last breath. I expect he was lynched by theenthusiastic mob.'
'Not much,' grinned Mike. 'They were too busy with us. All right, I'llcome if you really want me to, but it's awful rot.'
One of the many things Mike could never understand in Psmith was hisfondness for getting into atmospheres that were not his own. He wouldgo out of his way to do this. Mike, like most boys of his age, wasnever really happy and at his ease except in the presence of those ofhis own years and class. Psmith, on the contrary, seemed to be bored bythem, and infinitely preferred talking to somebody who lived in quiteanother world. Mike was not a snob. He simply had not the ability to beat his ease with people in another class from his own. He did not knowwhat to talk to them about, unless they were cricket professionals.With them he was never at a loss.
But Psmith was different. He could get on with anyone. He seemed tohave the gift of entering into their minds and seeing things from theirpoint of view.
As regarded Mr Waller, Mike liked him personally, and was prepared, aswe have seen, to undertake considerable risks in his defence; but heloathed with all his heart and soul the idea of supper at his house. Heknew that he would have nothing to say. Whereas Psmith gave him theimpression of looking forward to the thing as a treat.
* * * * *
The house where Mr Waller lived was one of a row of semi-detachedvillas on the north side of the Common. The door was opened to them bytheir host himself. So far from looking battered and emitting lastbreaths, he appeared particularly spruce. He had just returned fromChurch, and was still wearing his gloves and tall hat. He squeaked withsurprise when he saw who were standing on the mat.
'Why, dear me, dear me,' he said. 'Here you are! I have been wonderingwhat had happened to you. I was afraid that you might have beenseriously hurt. I was afraid those ruffians might have injured you.When last I saw you, you were being--'
'Chivvied,' interposed Psmith, with dignified melancholy. 'Do not letus try to wrap the fact up in pleasant words. We were being chivvied.We were legging it with the infuriated mob at our heels. An ignominiousposition for a Shropshire Psmith, but, after all, Napoleon did thesame.'
'But what happened? I could not see. I only know that quite suddenlythe people seemed to stop listening to me, and all gathered round youand Jackson. And then I saw that Jackson was engaged in a fight with ayoung man.'
'Comrade Jackson, I imagine, having heard a great deal about all menbeing equal, was anxious to test the theory, and see whether ComradeBill was as good a man as he was. The experiment was broken offprematurely, but I personally should be inclined to say that ComradeJackson had a shade the better of the exchanges.'
Mr Waller looked with interest at Mike, who shuffled and felt awkward.He was hoping that Psmith would say nothing about the reason of hisengaging Bill in combat. He had an uneasy feeling that Mr Waller'sgratitude would be effusive and overpowering, and he did not wish topose as the brave young hero. There are moments when one does not feelequal to the _role_.
Fortunately, before Mr Waller had time to ask any further questions,the supper-bell sounded, and they went into the dining-room.
Sunday supper, unless done on a large and informal scale, is probablythe most depressing meal in existence. There is a chill discomfort inthe round of beef, an icy severity about the open jam tart. Theblancmange shivers miserably.
Spirituous liquor helps to counteract the influence of these things,and so does exhilarating conversation. Unfortunately, at Mr Waller'stable there was neither. The cashier's views on temperance were notmerely for the platform; they extended to the home. And the company wasnot of the exhilarating sort. Besides Psmith and Mike and their host,there were four people present--Comrade Prebble, the orator; a youngman of the name of Richards; Mr Waller's niece, answering to the nameof Ada, who was engaged to Mr Richards; and Edward.
Edward was Mr Waller's son. He was ten years old, wore a very tightEton suit, and had the peculiarly loathsome expression which a snubnose sometimes gives to the young.
It would have been plain to the most casual observer that Mr Waller wasfond and proud of his son. The cashier was a widower, and after fiveminutes' acquaintance with Edward, Mike felt strongly that Mrs Wallerwas the lucky one. Edward sat next to Mike, and showed a tendency toconcentrate his conversation on him. Psmith, at the opposite end of thetable, beamed in a fatherly manner upon the pair through his eyeglass.
Mike got on with small girls reasonably well. He preferred them at adistance, but, if cornered by them, could put up a fairly good show.Small boys, however, filled him with a sort of frozen horror. It washis view that a boy should not be exhibited publicly until he reachedan age when he might be in the running for some sort of colours at apublic school.
Edward was one of those well-informed small boys. He opened on Mikewith the first mouthful.
'Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles?' he inquired.
'What?' said Mike coldly.
'Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles? I do.'
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Yes. Do you know the capital of Madagascar?'
Mike, as crimson as the beef he was attacking, said he did not.
'I do.'
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Who was the first king--'
'You mustn't worry Mr Jackson, Teddy,' said Mr Waller, with a touch ofpride in his voice, as who should say 'There are not many boys of hisage, I can tell you, who _could_ worry you with questions likethat.'
'No, no, he likes it,' said Psmith, unnecessarily. 'He likes it. Ialways hold that much may be learned by casual chit-chat across thedinner-table. I owe much of my own grasp of--'
'I bet _you_ don't know what's the capital of Madagascar,'interrupted Mike rudely.
'I do,' said Edward. 'I can tell you the kings of Israel?' he added,turning to Mike. He seemed to have no curiosity as to the extent ofPsmith's knowledge. Mike's appeared to fascinate him.
Mike helped himself to beetroot in moody silence.
His mouth was full when Comrade Prebble asked him a question. ComradePrebble, as has been pointed out in an earlier part of the narrative,was a good chap, but had no roof to his mouth.
'I beg your pardon?' said Mike.
Comrade Prebble repeated his observation. Mike looked helplessly atPsmith, but Psmith's eyes were on his plate.
Mike felt he must venture on some answer.
'No,' he said decidedly.
Comrade Prebble seemed slightly taken aback. There was an awkwardpause. Then Mr Waller, for whom his fellow Socialist's methods ofconversation held no mysteries, interpreted.
'The mustar
d, Prebble? Yes, yes. Would you mind passing Prebble themustard, Mr Jackson?'
'Oh, sorry,' gasped Mike, and, reaching out, upset the water-jug intothe open jam-tart.
Through the black mist which rose before his eyes as he leaped to hisfeet and stammered apologies came the dispassionate voice of MasterEdward Waller reminding him that mustard was first introduced into Peruby Cortez.
His host was all courtesy and consideration. He passed the matter offgenially. But life can never be quite the same after you have upset awater-jug into an open jam-tart at the table of a comparative stranger.Mike's nerve had gone. He ate on, but he was a broken man.
At the other end of the table it became gradually apparent that thingswere not going on altogether as they should have done. There was a sortof bleakness in the atmosphere. Young Mr Richards was looking like astuffed fish, and the face of Mr Waller's niece was cold and set.
'Why, come, come, Ada,' said Mr Waller, breezily, 'what's the matter?You're eating nothing. What's George been saying to you?' he addedjocularly.
'Thank you, uncle Robert,' replied Ada precisely, 'there's nothing thematter. Nothing that Mr Richards can say to me can upset me.'
'Mr Richards!' echoed Mr Waller in astonishment. How was he to knowthat, during the walk back from church, the world had been transformed,George had become Mr Richards, and all was over?
'I assure you, Ada--' began that unfortunate young man. Ada turned afrigid shoulder towards him.
'Come, come,' said Mr Waller disturbed. 'What's all this? What's allthis?'
His niece burst into tears and left the room.
If there is anything more embarrassing to a guest than a family row, wehave yet to hear of it. Mike, scarlet to the extreme edges of his ears,concentrated himself on his plate. Comrade Prebble made a great manyremarks, which were probably illuminating, if they could have beenunderstood. Mr Waller looked, astonished, at Mr Richards. Mr Richards,pink but dogged, loosened his collar, but said nothing. Psmith, leaningforward, asked Master Edward Waller his opinion on the Licensing Bill.
'We happened to have a word or two,' said Mr Richards at length, 'onthe way home from church on the subject of Women's Suffrage.'
'That fatal topic!' murmured Psmith.
'In Australia--' began Master Edward Waller.
'I was rayther--well, rayther facetious about it,' continued MrRichards.
Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically.
'In Australia--' said Edward.
'I went talking on, laughing and joking, when all of a sudden she flewout at me. How was I to know she was 'eart and soul in the movement?You never told me,' he added accusingly to his host.
'In Australia--' said Edward.
'I'll go and try and get her round. How was I to know?'
Mr Richards thrust back his chair and bounded from the room.
'Now, iawinyaw, iear oiler--' said Comrade Prebble judicially, but wasinterrupted.
'How very disturbing!' said Mr Waller. 'I am so sorry that this shouldhave happened. Ada is such a touchy, sensitive girl. She--'
'In Australia,' said Edward in even tones, 'they've _got_ Women'sSuffrage already. Did _you_ know that?' he said to Mike.
Mike made no answer. His eyes were fixed on his plate. A bead ofperspiration began to roll down his forehead. If his feelings couldhave been ascertained at that moment, they would have been summed up inthe words, 'Death, where is thy sting?'
Psmith in the City Page 17