The Compleat Bachelor

by Oliver Onions

  XIII

  POT LUCK

  "Do you know, Butterfield," Bassishaw said, "I don't know how you getalong--that is--get along, you know--as you do."

  The remark didn't seem particularly illuminating, but he had been silentfor ten minutes, and this appeared to be the result of his cogitation.

  "No?" I said encouragingly.

  "Well, you know what I mean," he replied. "I mean how you manage--in theway you do, you know; never to--you've never--hang it, Butterfield, whydon't you get married?"

  "Oh!" I answered, "I see. Of course. I didn't quite catch the idea atfirst. Of course. Why don't I get married."

  "Yes," he replied, much relieved. "You--you should, you know. It's thefinest thing in the world--being engaged, that is. You've no idea,really, Butterfield."

  He seemed quite eager about it. I put my feet comfortably on the fender,and waited for him to expand. He kept his eyes on the fire.

  "You know," he went on slowly, "you'll feel awfully lonely and allthat--soon, that is--when Caroline goes, I mean."

  Matchmaking is never a man's line; he draws back at the very intimatepoint he should press home. Arthur did his best. Mrs. Loring hadprobably been talking to him.

  "I shall miss her very much," I replied, "very much indeed; but to whomdo you propose to marry me?"

  He seemed rather abashed, and a trifle impatient.

  "Don't be an ass," he said.

  I could not be certain, owing to the firelight, that he blushed, but Ichanced it. I didn't object to these palpable attempts to marry me toMillicent Dixon; but it was disparaging to my intelligence that I shouldbe supposed not to notice them. Anyway, the male element was a newfeature in the alliance.

  "And do you think that she and I would be a well-matched pair?" I asked.

  He professed a hypocritical ignorance as to whom I meant. I laughed.

  "Mrs. Loring," I answered, "can give you points, Arthur. You wouldapparently marry me on general principles. She particularises."

  We were waiting for Caroline and Millicent. Millicent and Bassishaw weredining with us that evening, and Bassishaw had lately, I knew, been agood deal perturbed on my account. More than once he had timidlysuggested that a woman's hand in a place made all the difference, youknow, and I had caught him glancing round my rooms with something of adisparaging valuation of their contents when he should take Carolineaway. His friendly concern, in itself, was deserving of mygratitude--but with this qualification, that I don't believe he wasabove suspecting that I should take to drink in the imminent solitude ofmy bereft apartments.

  I was extracting from him the fervent declaration that I couldn'timagine how splendid It--being engaged--made you feel, and that to knowthat there was One upon whom et-cetera et-cetera For Ever, whenMillicent and Caroline entered. We rose to greet them.

  "How do you do, Millicent?" I said. "I'm glad to see you."

  "Heaven!" she replied, "let me come near the fire. I'm as cold as aseminary breakfast. How do you do, Arthur? What a blessed blaze! Don'tgo away, Arthur."

  Bassishaw had gone over to the table, where Caroline was making the lastunnecessary arrangements, and was having his flower pinned on.

  "Oh! his circulation's all right," I remarked. "We were once like that,"and Millicent, looking over her shoulder, laughed at me, and said:

  "The dear infants!"

  Dinner was served, and we took our places. I faced Caroline, whileMillicent, who was still chilly, and didn't mind the fire at her back,looked over the flowers at Bassishaw; an arrangement as can bediagrammatically proved, offering facilities for between-deck pressingof feet on a diagonal plan, and which appeared to suit my young sisteradmirably. I gave her an amused glance, which Millicent intercepted, andCarrie tried, unsuccessfully, to look as if she hadn't done it.

  "Never mind him, Carrie," Millicent said reassuringly. "He's an enviousold man, who's wasted his youth, and he's getting cynical. His failingyears won't permit him to do such things himself, and his consciencebegins to hurt him."

  This was the woman without whom, in Bassishaw's opinion, my abode fellshort of completeness.

  "My failing years, Miss Dixon," I returned, "bring with them a certaincharity; nevertheless, allow me to point out your reason for condoningsuch practices."

  "Which is----?" she queried.

  "That you are quite capable of doing the same thing yourself."

  She laughed, and Bassishaw looked puzzled.

  "Oh, I'm not tottering to my fall yet," she retorted. "I have all sortsof little surprises in my blood."

  "You forbid reply, Miss Dixon," I answered. "You take refuge in aposition where man can only maintain a respectful and increduloussilence. A woman's years----"

  "----are----?" she challenged.

  "----and an income-tax return----"

  "I am beneath your roof, Mr. Butterfield," she replied, with the dignityof St. James's comedy.

  Caroline evidently disapproved strongly. She caught my eye.

  "I don't think you're a bit nice this evening, Rollo," she said. "If Iwere Millicent"--she straightened her back--"I wouldn't dine with you.Don't take any notice of him, Millie dear."

  "Perhaps," I replied, "the disparity in years is too great. Think so,Bassishaw?"

  I looked round the flowers at him. He seemed rather embarrassed, andsaid nothing. I filled Millicent's glass, and turned to her.

  "What do you think Bassishaw was saying to me just before you came in?"

  I received a kick. Bassishaw, behind the flowers, was very red indeed.

  "Heaven forbid that I should guess!" Millicent replied. "Men are frailcreatures."

  "He was speaking," I continued, "of women as a domestic institution. Nohome, he said, was complete without one. Considered decoratively, shegave an air of brightness----"

  Bassishaw must have been as busy in his pedipulations as an organist,for Caroline peremptorily held out her glass to be replenished. Icontinued:

  "As a companion, he said, much could be forgiven her. And she hadadmirable managing gifts."

  Millicent bowed across the flowers.

  "The sex thanks you, Arthur," she said. "It is quite the proper point ofview for a young man. As for this belated bachelor,"--myself--"he neverdid, nor ever will, think rightly on the subject."

  Bassishaw looked at me reproachfully.

  "I didn't mean--what you think I meant," he said uncomfortably.

  "Forgive me. You meant much more than I say I think you meant."

  "I meant--I meant----" he replied; and then, apologetically, "well, you_are_ getting on, you know, and you've missed so much, really, Rollo. Ifyou _like_ being alone----A man who's never--you don't mind my sayingit?--well, he doesn't know, that's all."

  Bassishaw subsided rather incoherently, but applied himself to his platewith conviction. I looked at Millicent, who glanced sidelong fun underher lids.

  "What you say is perfectly convincing as a proposition, Arthur," sheremarked. "The man who's Never--never does know; but the application isanother matter. From report, there were hopes for Rollo Butterfield thathe has failed to justify. He flirted notoriously."

  "Thank you, gracious lady," I replied complacently, leaning back at myease. "That is the name the world gives it."

  "Your conduct with Dolly Hemingway was shameless."

  "Marriage would certainly have been an illogical conclusion," Iadmitted.

  "And Violet Mellish told me herself----"

  "Dear little Vi," I approved. "Her conversation never did lack therelish of revelation. You must not suppose, Arthur, that I have not hadthe normal past that my years would guarantee. You appear to think so."

  Bassishaw didn't seem to see it at all. He fumbled with his fork.

  "I expect you've had your fancies, of course," he replied. "But I don'tmean just fancies--that's only flirting."

  The man who cannot flirt never sees that the power to do so is a gift ofthe gods. Arthur held by negative c
onstancy.

  "Flirtation," I replied, "is not the simple affair you think, Arthur. Itis not necessarily a matter of twilights and conservatories, and doesnot even always demand privacy. For a flirtation with zest there isnothing like having an audience. Is that not so, Millicent?"

  "Spare me the revelation of my ignorance," Millicent returned, movingher chair an inch or two from the now importunate fire, and looking overher shoulder. "It is possible."

  "The only requisites are a woman, a secret, and as many spectators ashave not the use of their eyes," I continued; "those granted, you mayriot in innuendo, and your reputation go scatheless. It is the verybutton on the cap."

  Bassishaw could think of nothing more original to say than that it wasplaying with edged tools. Carrie was directing the removal of plates; Idevoted my attention to Millicent.

  "I had one very serious fancy, though, Millicent," I remarked. "Shall Itell you?"

  "I trust it is not unfit for the children," she replied, looking thistime beneath the flowers at Bassishaw. "The knowledge of good and evilfrom your point of view might not be of advantage to them."

  Caroline looked round curiously.

  "Oh, Rollo, what was that?" she said. "You never told me."

  "No?" I inquired incredulously. "And you my sister, too! Ah, well, itwas this. Summer mornings, at seven, I used to go across the fields witha bathing-towel; on my return I was generally met by--I never mentionedher name."

  "It would be indiscreet," said Millicent.

  "Discretion," I answered, "is the better part of flirtation. They werelovely mornings, and there was a stile--a rather high stile--a distinctopportunity."

  I looked carefully away from Millicent, and turned to Bassishaw.

  "Yes?" he said appreciatively. "And what happened?"

  "I fancy," I continued, "that she always met me on my side of the stile,so that we always had to get over it."

  Bassishaw seemed to approve the strategy.

  "Nice girl?" he asked.

  "She combined," I replied, "the harmlessness of the dove with the wisdomof the serpent, for she used to feel tired when we got there, and rest.There was just room for two."

  Caroline was interested.

  "And when was this, Rollo?" she asked.

  "My dear Carrie," I returned, "you had just begun German; you were atschool. Well, this woman of mine would pull a flower to pieces, or lighta cigarette for me, or some such foolishness. She knew the exactdistance at which her hair would touch my face if it were a littletumbled. And so on."

  Millicent made the criticism that the least she could have done underthe circumstances was to have sprained her ankle.

  "And who was it?" Carrie asked eagerly.

  The woman who presumed to condemn my carrying-on with Dolly Hemingwayand Violet Mellish sat smiling in frank innocence. She, whose ignoranceof such matters was to be scrupulously respected, sat withunconsciousness on her brow, and gave graceful attention to my story.She, who had called me a belated bachelor, who had spoken of my failingyears and my perspective of hesitating singleness, and, above all, whosememory needed no hint as to what I was going to say, dissembled withouta quiver.

  "Who was it?" Caroline repeated.

  "The name is the least essential part of the affair," I replied. "We areconcerned with the stile."

  "Yes, the stile," Millicent said. "What happened?"

  "Were she to ask me herself, I should only whisper," I returned.

  She leaned back and laughed outright. "You are too considerate on heraccount to make the story very interesting," she remarked. "I swear Icould finish it better myself. One day you tried to kiss her."

  Millicent had chosen the hazardous line of safety. She had told thetruth.

  I stole a glance at her under cover of the flowers.

  "I tried not to," I replied.

  "And she was angry."

  "She did her best to be angry."

  "She was."

  "Till the next morning," I answered.

  "And then you begged her pardon?"

  "I did nothing of the kind. I was not so young as all that."

  "But, at least, you were sorry?" Millicent suggested.

  "Not from that day to this," I replied. "It was too perfect."

  Millicent moved her chair a little further, and, as she did so--it mighthave been done purposely--you never can tell with Millicent--her foottouched mine gently; and as it remained there a moment, I felt more likeBassishaw than I would have cared to admit. She has since told me, Idon't mind saying, that I have good eyes; be that as it may, themischief in her own was for a second tempered to an expression that--wasnobody's business but mine. I felt tempted to forswear my theory, and toregret the presence of an audience.

  She rose gaily.

  "This is all very well," she said, "but it is a bad thing to have thefire at your back. Be good enough to put the screen up, Arthur."

  Arthur did so.

  "But the story," Caroline persisted impatiently--she wanted to get tothe reconciliation with tears. "How does the story go on?"

  "It went on," I replied, "in much the same way. It is not quite finishedyet."

  She looked a virtuous reproof.

  "I am surprised, Rollo," she said, "that you should have behaved in soindiscreet a fashion. I think that on that occasion it was just as wellthere _was_ nobody there. _I_ should be exceedingly sorry to witness anysuch proceeding. It would make me extremely uncomfortable."

  I laughed, and stroked my little sister's hair.

  "What liqueur will you take, Millicent?" I asked.