This is always a woman's first question.
'Oh, you were there, of course. And father. Nurse, too. It was a lovely dream. Such a nice place.'
'Was Dilly there?'
'Dilly? Er—no—no—she wasn't. She was in the night nursery, with
Satan.'
Sometimes Edith thought that her daughter's names were decidedly a failure—Aspasia by mistake, Matilda through obstinacy, and Dilly by accident. However the child herself was a success. She was four years old when the incident occurred about the Mitchells. The whole of this story turns eventually on the Mitchells.
The Ottleys lived in a concise white flat at Knightsbridge. Bruce's father had some time ago left him a good income on certain conditions; one was that he was not to leave the Foreign Office before he was fifty. One afternoon Edith was talking to the telephone in a voice of agonised entreaty that would have melted the hardest of hearts, but did not seem to have much effect on the Exchange, which, evidently, was not responsive to pathos that day.
'Oh! Exchange, why are you ringing off? Please try again. … Do I want any number? Yes, I do want any number, of course, or why should I ring up? … I want 6375 Gerrard.'
Here Archie interposed.
'Mother, can I have your long buttonhook?'
'No, Archie, you can't just now, dear. … Go away Archie. … Yes, I said 6375 Gerrard. Only 6375 Gerrard! … Are you there? Oh, don't keep on asking me if I've got them! … No, they haven't answered. … Are you 6375? … Oh—wrong number—sorry. … 6375 Gerrard? Only six—are you there? … Not 6375 Gerrard? … Are you anyone else? … Oh, is it you, Vincy? … I want to tell you—'
'Mother, can I have your long buttonhook?'
Here Bruce came in. Edith rang off. Archie disappeared.
'It's really rather wonderful, Edith, what that Sandow exerciser has done for me! You laughed at me at first, but I've improved marvellously.'
Bruce was walking about doing very mild gymnastics, and occasionally hitting himself on the left arm with the right fist.' Look at my muscle—look at it—and all in such a short time!'
'Wonderful!' said Edith.
'The reason I know what an extraordinary effect these few days have had on me is something I have just done which I couldn't have done before. Of course I'm naturally a very powerful man, and only need a little—'
'What have you done?'
'Why—you know that great ridiculous old wooden chest that your awful Aunt Matilda sent you for your birthday—absurd present I call it—mere lumber.'
'Yes?'
'When it came I could barely push it from one side of the room to the other. Now I've lifted it from your room to the box-room. Quite easily. Pretty good, isn't it?'
'Yes, of course it's very good for you to do all these exercises; no doubt it's capital. … Er—you know I've had all the things taken out of the chest since you tried it before, don't you?'
'Things—what things? I didn't know there was anything in it.'
'Only a silver tea-service, and a couple of salvers,' said Edith, in a low voice. …
… He calmed down fairly soon and said: 'Edith, I have some news for you. You know the Mitchells?'
'Do I know the Mitchells? Mitchell, your hero in your office, that you're always being offended with—at least I know the Mitchells by name. I ought to.'
'Well, what do you think they've done? They've asked us to dinner.'
'Have they? Fancy!'
'Yes, and what I thought was so particularly jolly of him was that it was a verbal invitation. Mitchell said to me, just like this, 'Ottley, old chap, are you doing anything on Sunday evening?''
Here Archie came to the door and said, 'Mother, can I have your long buttonhook?'
Edith shook her head and frowned.
''Ottley, old chap,'' continued Bruce, ''are you and your wife doing anything on Sunday? If not, I do wish you would waive ceremony and come and dine with us. Would Mrs. Ottley excuse a verbal invitation, do you think?' I said, 'Well, Mitchell, as a matter of fact I don't believe we have got anything on. Yes, old boy, we shall be delighted.' I accepted, you see. I accepted straight out. When you're treated in a friendly way, I always say why be unfriendly? And Mrs. Mitchell is a charming little woman—I'm sure you'd like her. It seems she's been dying to know you.'
'Fancy! I wonder she's still alive, then, because you and Mitchell have known each other for eight years, and I've never met her yet.'
'Well, you will now. Let bygones be bygones. They live in Hamilton
Place.'
'Oh yes. … Park Lane?'
'I told you he was doing very well, and his wife has private means.'
'Mother,' Archie began again, like a litany, 'can I have your long buttonhook? I know where it is.'
'No, Archie, certainly not; you can't fasten laced boots with a buttonhook. … Well, that will be fun, Bruce.'
'I believe they're going to have games after dinner,' said Bruce. 'All very jolly—musical crambo—that sort of thing. … What shall you wear, Edith?'
'Mother, do let me have your long buttonhook. I want it. It isn't for my boots.'
'Certainly not. What a nuisance you are! Do go away. … I think I shall wear my salmon-coloured dress with the sort of mayonnaise- coloured sash. … (No, you're not to have it, Archie).'
'But, Mother, I've got it. … I can soon mend it, Mother.'
On Sunday evening Bruce's high spirits seemed to flag; he had one of his sudden reactions. He looked at everything on its dark side.
'What on earth's that thing in your hair, Edith?'
'It's a bandeau.'
'I don't like it. Your hair looks very nice without it. What on earth did you get it for?'
'For about six-and-eleven, I think.'
'Don't be trivial, Edith. We shall be late. Ah! It really does seem rather a pity, the very first time one dines with people like the Mitchells.'
'We sha'n't be late, Bruce. It's eight o'clock, and eight o'clock I suppose means—well, eight. Sure you've got the number right?'
'Really. Edith! … My memory is unerring, dear. I never make a mistake.
Haven't you ever noticed it?'
'A—oh yes—I think I have.'
'Well, it's 168 Hamilton Place. Look sharp, dear.'
On their way in the taxi he gave her a good many instructions and advised her to be perfectly at her ease and absolutely natural; there was nothing to make one otherwise, in either Mr. or Mrs. Mitchell. Also, he said, it didn't matter a bit what she wore, as long as she had put on her best dress. It seemed a pity she had not got a new one, but this couldn't be helped, as there was now no time. Edith agreed that she knew of no really suitable place where she could buy a new evening dress at eight-thirty on Sunday evening. And, anyhow, he said, she looked quite nice, really very smart; besides, Mrs. Mitchell was not the sort of person who would think any the less of a pretty woman for being a little dowdy and out of fashion.
When they drove up to what house agents call in their emotional way a superb, desirable, magnificent town mansion, they saw that a large dinner-party was evidently going on. A hall porter and four powdered footmen were in evidence.
'By Jove!' said Bruce, as he got out, 'I'd no idea old Mitchell did himself so