Sir Samuel finished his toast, drank up his tea, then threw down his napkin and prepared to rise, but the chances of an audience were too tempting, and he sat down again.
“Ah, yes, Beatrice,” he said impressively, “I can’t be sufficiently thankful that I struck out for myself. My father didn’t like it, you know. No. He wanted me to settle down in Glasgow and carry on his own business; didn’t care for risks. But I must say when he saw I’d made up my mind the old man was generous enough—gave me my portion, like the Prodigal Son, and wrote to all the people he knew in London to keep an eye on me! Most of them were canny Scots, pillars of the Presbyterian Church in London, supporters of vernacular circles and Burns’ Clubs—you know the kind, and they received me with great kindness and made me free of their houses. . . . Of course I began very quietly, but gradually I got on. And I was ambitious. Even as a youth I saw Parliament before me, and I made my first attempt at public speaking at the Church Debating Society in Clapham, where I had rooms. Then I took rooms in Kensington and joined a church there, and got to know more people, began tennis and golf, spent where spending paid, but lived carefully, you understand, for everything I could spare went to the enlarging of the business. And I was lucky, I acknowledge that, Things just seemed to fit in—with a well-directed push from me here and there!” He laughed gleefully and then sobered, as if he felt his theme too big for levity and continued:
“Well, I got to be noticed and talked about as a man who’d get on; my opinions were known to be sound and moderate and I was asked to stand for Parliament. I had plenty of confidence so I accepted. I didn’t get in, but I put up a jolly good fight and learned a lot. So when the next Election came, I got a constituency with a good sporting chance. I worked like a nigger and made every one work with me—result, a thumping majority. And I’ve sat for it ever since. I’ve always had a knack of managing people without letting them know they were being managed, and down at Lettington they eat out of my hand. I’m popular with all parties. They like my Scots decency and trust me, and yet I’m not too much a Scot, if you know what I mean. I’m not always flinging myself about over the rights of Scotland. I don’t blench when people talk about England when they mean Britain. I’m very well satisfied with what I’ve got out of England, and then, I suppose, having an English wife makes a difference—Well, well, I must go, I’m chattering. . . . I hope, my dear, that you’ll be happy here. Elaine must take you about a bit. . . . Both she and Betha are always up to the ears in engagements. Indeed, I seldom see them; they go their way and I go mine. Times have changed since my father’s day when a married couple were like the Siamese twins. But perhaps we go too far the other way. The swing of the pendulum, you know, the swing of the pendulum.”
He stood up, threw out his chest, brushed a crumb from his waistcoat; passed his hand over his carefully brushed hair and with a “Good morning, Beatrice,” left the room.
The girl went to the window to see him step into the car and was impressed by the important-looking leather case with “Sir Samuel Dobie” blazoned on it, that Payne handed in after him. Then she returned to the table to begin her delayed breakfast, for it had hardly seemed the proper thing to be calmly helping herself to eggs and bacon when Samuel was reciting for her benefit the tale of his life.
There was plenty to choose from; three hot dishes, a large ham, and both tea and coffee. Beatrice, who always liked her breakfast, sat down contentedly to enjoy it. It was rather nice, she told herself, to have a hostess who remained upstairs in the morning. But why did Elaine not come down to keep her father company? It seemed odd, but perhaps Samuel preferred it so. Probably he would not have appreciated the bright young daughter of Victorian novels, who was always at the breakfast table, fresh as the morning, to make Papa’s coffee as he liked it, and cheer him on his way with a daughterly embrace. The old ideal still reigned, more or less, in Glasgow. She remembered how Peggy Lithgow had, with much chaffing, accompanied her father along the terrace, advised him to be good, and had then returned, springing up the steps, as her mother told her, like a wild goat on the mountains.
Well, it was wonderful to be here, in Portland Place, in the middle of everything. To outward appearance it was not unlike Glasgow or any other large city: the same dignified houses, maids doing front doors, message boys whistling, motor-van drivers exchanging badinage with servants, girls on their way to work, walking past with very neat legs and feet. An Indian with a dirty white turban and a bulging cheap suitcase was going down area steps to try to tempt people with his wares. . . .
Nine-thirty! Evidently no one else was coming for breakfast, and the maids would want to clear away. Her own room would be in process of getting tidied. Should she go to the drawing-room? As she went through the hall she saw through a half-open door the glow of a fire, and went into the door. Here was a refuge, a comfortable room, with bookcases and a large writing table; probably Samuel’s own room, where she might sit and disturb no one. There were papers here too, picture papers as well as the more solid dailies, so she sat down by the fire and enjoyed them for half-an-hour. Then she remembered that Mrs. Lithgow would be eagerly looking for a letter and went over to the writing table, where she found an imposing blotter, an array of pens, and a well-filled case of note-paper.
“Dear Mrs. Lithgow.” No, “dearest,” the other looked cold and formal. Then Beatrice stopped. What had she to tell her? She would have to make a story about the journey and about her arrival and what the house was like and her relations. . . . And above everything she must try and thank, however inadequately, the Lithgow family for their great kindness to her. She did her best, but was far from pleased with the result; it was a wooden letter. Perhaps if she waited till the afternoon she might have more to say; the post didn’t go till after six, so she took up a book.
About eleven o’clock Betha appeared dressed for out-of-doors.
“Here you are!” she cried, sitting down and stretching out her feet to the fire. “You early bird! I feel I should scold you for not lying still and having a nice rest, but I believe in letting every one go their own way. Yes, it is a nice day, so far as a day can be nice at this time of year in England. I am a sun worshipper, I admit it. Yes. But now that we are alone together, I want you to tell me all about your dear mother’s illness. I do hope she didn’t suffer, and that it wasn’t too terribly trying for you.”
There was a pause, then Beatrice said: “She didn’t allow it to be terrible. She managed to make it almost a happy time, at least one to remember with—pride.”
“How marvellous! But she was such a fine type. I do wish I had known her better, but really, as I often say to Elaine, the world is too much with us. One hasn’t time for the quiet friendships and intimate talks one would so enjoy. Instead, one rushes here and there. Just take to-day. I have three appointments before one o’clock. I’m lunching with a most amusing woman, an American. In the afternoon I’ve a committee meeting about a Charity Ball, a tea, and a cocktail party—I wonder what Elaine is doing. I do hope she’ll be able to go out with you. . . . Oh, here she is! Good morning, darling.”
Elaine, looking very modish in a small hat that appeared to be glued to her head, wandered in in an absent-minded way.
“Oh, Beatrice, good morning. Good morning, Mother. I don’t suppose anyone saw an engagement book.” She pushed the things about on the writing-table. “I’m always losing it, but some one generally finds it and puts it here.”
“Is this it?” Beatrice produced a small blue book that she had noticed lurking beneath a picture paper.
“Oh, bless you, darling. Now I shall see what I am doing to-day. It’s my life’s comfort this book. You see it’s got a space for every hour of the day, and it begins at 8.30 which gives me such a delicious feeling of possessing all the time there is!”
“I hoped you’d be able to take Beatrice out,” said her mother.
Elaine considered the page before her. “I could cut the lunch,” she said; “and make my hair do another day, and—yes, we could have the morning together, Beatrice, if you would care to. After lunch I’m