“Why, a pound IS a sovereign, of course,” Philip answered briskly, smiling the genuine British smile of unfeigned astonishment that anybody should be ignorant of a minor detail in the kind of life he had always lived among. To be sure, he would have asked himself with equal simplicity what was the difference between a twenty-franc piece, a napoleon, and a louis, or would have debated as to the precise numerical relation between twenty-five cents and a quarter of a dollar; but then, those are mere foreign coins, you see, which no fellow can be expected to understand, unless he happens to have lived in the country they are used in. The others are British and necessary to salvation. That feeling is instinctive in the thoroughly provincial English nature. No Englishman ever really grasps for himself the simple fact that England is a foreign country to foreigners; if strangers happen to show themselves ignorant of any petty matter in English life, he regards their ignorance as silly and childish, not to be compared for a moment to his own natural unfamiliarity with the absurd practices of foreign nations.
The Alien, indeed, seemed to have learned beforehand this curious peculiarity of the limited English intellect; for he blushed slightly as he replied, “I know your currency, as a matter of arithmetic, of course: twelve pence make one shilling; twenty shillings make one pound—”
“Of course,” Philip echoed in a tone of perfect conviction; it would never have occurred to him to doubt for a moment that everybody knew intuitively those beggarly elements of the inspired British monetary system.
“Though they’re singularly awkward units of value for any one accustomed to a decimal coinage: so unreasonable and illogical,” the stranger continued blandly, turning over the various pieces with a dubious air of distrust and uncertainty.
“I BEG your pardon,” Philip said, drawing himself up very stiff, and scarcely able to believe his ears (he was an official of Her Britannic Majesty’s Government, and unused to such blasphemy). “Do I understand you to say, you consider pounds, shillings, and pence UNREASONABLE?”
He put an emphasis on the last word that might fairly have struck terror to the stranger’s breast; but somehow it did not. “Why, yes,” the Alien went on with imperturbable gentleness: “no order or principle, you know. No rational connection. A mere survival from barbaric use. A score, and a dozen. The score is one man, ten fingers and ten toes; the dozen is one man with shoes on—fingers and feet together. Twelve pence make one shilling; twenty shillings one pound. How very confusing! And then, the nomenclature’s so absurdly difficult! Which of these is half-a-crown, if you please, and which is a florin? and what are their respective values in pence and shillings?”
Philip picked out the coins and explained them to him separately. The Alien meanwhile received the information with evident interest, as a traveller in that vast tract that is called Abroad might note the habits and manners of some savage tribe that dwells within its confines, and solemnly wrapped each coin up in paper, as his instructor named it for him, writing the designation and value outside in a peculiarly beautiful and legible hand. “It’s so puzzling, you see,” he said in explanation, as Philip smiled another superior and condescending British smile at this infantile proceeding; “the currency itself has no congruity or order: and then, even these queer unrelated coins haven’t for the most part their values marked in words or figures upon them.”
“Everybody knows what they are,” Philip answered lightly. Though for a moment, taken aback by the novelty of the idea, he almost admitted in his own mind that to people who had the misfortune to be born foreigners, there WAS perhaps a slight initial difficulty in this unlettered system. But then, you cannot expect England to be regulated throughout for the benefit of foreigners! Though, to be sure, on the one occasion when Philip had visited the Rhine and Switzerland, he had grumbled most consumedly from Ostend to Grindelwald, at those very decimal coins which the stranger seemed to admire so much, and had wondered why the deuce Belgium, Germany, Holland, and Switzerland could not agree among themselves upon a uniform coinage; it would be so much more convenient to the British tourist. For the British tourist, of course, is NOT a foreigner.
On the door-step of Miss Blake’s Furnished Apartments for Families and Gentlemen, the stranger stopped again. “One more question,” he interposed in that same suave voice, “if I’m not trespassing too much on your time and patience. For what sort of term—by the day, month, year—does one usually take lodgings?”
“Why, by the week, of course,” Philip answered, suppressing a broad smile of absolute surprise at the man’s childish ignorance.
“And how much shall I have to pay?” the Alien went on quietly. “Have you any fixed rule about it?”
“Of course not,” Philip answered, unable any longer to restrain his amusement (everything in England was “of course” to Philip). “You pay according to the sort of accommodation you require, the number of your rooms, and the nature of the neighbourhood.”
“I see,” the Alien replied, imperturbably polite, in spite of Philip’s condescending manner. “And what do I pay per room in this latitude and longitude?”
For twenty seconds, Philip half suspected his new acquaintance of a desire to chaff him: but as at the same time the Alien drew from his pocket a sort of combined compass and chronometer which he gravely consulted for his geographical bearings, Philip came to the conclusion he must be either a seafaring man or an escaped lunatic. So he answered him to the point. “I should think,” he said quietly, “as Miss Blake’s are extremely respectable lodgings, in a first-rate quarter, and with a splendid view, you’ll probably have to pay somewhere about three guineas.”
“Three what?” the stranger interposed, with an inquiring glance at the little heap of coins he still held before him.
Philip misinterpreted his glance. “Perhaps that’s too much for you,” he suggested, looking severe; for if people cannot afford to pay for decent rooms, they have no right to invade an aristocratic suburb, and bespeak the attention of its regular residents.
“Oh, that’s not it,” the Alien put in, reading his tone aright. “The money doesn’t matter to me. As long as I can get a tidy room, with sun and air, I don’t mind what I pay. It’s the guinea I can’t quite remember about for the moment. I looked it up, I know, in a dictionary at home; but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it. Let me see; it’s twenty-one pounds to the guinea, isn’t it? Then I’m to pay about sixty-three pounds a week for my lodgings.”
This was the right spirit. He said it so simply, so seriously, so innocently, that Philip was quite sure he really meant it. He was prepared, if necessary, to pay sixty odd pounds a week in rent. Now, a man like that is the proper kind of man for a respectable neighbourhood. He’ll keep a good saddle-horse, join the club, and play billiards freely. Philip briefly explained to him the nature of his mistake, pointing out to him that a guinea was an imaginary coin, unrepresented in metal, but reckoned by prescription at twenty-one shillings. The stranger received the slight correction with such perfect nonchalance, that Philip at once conceived a high opinion of his wealth and solvency, and therefore of his respectability and moral character. It was clear that pounds and shillings were all one to him. Philip had been right, no doubt, in his first diagnosis of his queer acquaintance as a man of distinction. For wealth and distinction are practically synonyms in England for one and the same quality, possession of the wherewithal.
As they parted, the stranger spoke again, still more at sea. “And are there any special ceremonies to be gone through on taking up lodgings?” he asked quite gravely. “Any religious rites, I mean to say? Any poojah or so forth? That is,” he went on, as Philip’s smile broadened, “is there any taboo to be removed or appeased before I can take up my residence in the apartments?”
By this time Philip was really convinced he had to do with a madman—perhaps a dangerous lunatic. So he answered rather testily, “No, certainly not; how absurd! you must see that’s ridiculous. You’re in a civilised country, not among Australian savages. All you’ll have to do is to take the rooms and pay for them. I’m sorry I can’t