‘That’s a very odd sort of man,’ said Mr Tidson, gazing with nervous interest at Thomas’ retreating form and at the two dragon’s eyes of silver buttons on the back of the old man’s livery; for Thomas acted both as porter and cocktail waiter in the same greenish uniform. It had silver-braided cuffs and silver buttons, and he had worn it for years past. It was almost threadbare, but nothing would induce him to take to the new and smart blue-and-gold suit which the manageress had been anxious to provide. He had confided to Connie when she had come down early one morning and had discovered him, with the coat off, going over the buttons with plate powder, that he liked fine to gie his wee lozenges a bit of a shine, for, between themselves, (meaning himself and Connie), they minded him on a kiltie suit he had had as a wee laddie in Kilmarnock.
‘He is not only an odd sort of man; he is a very intelligent fellow,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘And he serves very good sherry,’ she added, ‘although perhaps that is more to the credit of the hotel than to his own personal credit.’
‘We are not having sherry to-day, though,’ said Crete, ‘and Thomas does not approve of champagne cocktails.’
She smiled at Thomas when he returned with the glasses. Thomas inclined his head in acknowledgement of the smile, but did not move a muscle of his Covenanting face as he set the cocktails down on the polished table.
‘I think,’ said Mrs Bradley suddenly, ‘that Connie ought to take me up all the hills to-morrow. Will you?’ she added, turning to the girl. ‘I believe you walk fast and far, and I feel the need of exercise.’
‘I’d love to go with you,’ replied Connie. ‘But what about you, Aunt Prissie?’ she added, turning towards Miss Carmody.
‘You and Mrs Bradley would walk my legs off,’ Miss Carmody comfortably replied. ‘I shall write up my Mothers. It is a task much overdue. I will sit with Crete whilst she does her embroidery. What do you say, Crete, to that?’
‘She says nothing,’ said Mr Tidson, raising his glass. ‘What can she say, my dear Prissie? Convention does not permit her to say that she prefers her own company, and if she does pretend to welcome your presence you are not to be blamed if you think her protestations sincere.’
He sipped his cocktail thoughtfully after this rather rude speech, then suddenly started, and called excitedly for Thomas. The factotum appeared, and gazed with disapproval at the party.
‘What will ye?’ he enquired, looming like a minor prophet with a major message, uncompromisingly beside the tiny table.
‘This cocktail! Where’s the brandy?’ Mr Tidson demanded. Thomas picked up the glass, bent bristling brows upon the complainant, walked to the window, held the innocent drink to the light, and then replied in justly withering tones:
‘I will be speiring.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Carmody, taking up her drink. ‘You’ve annoyed him! Next time we shall get no brandy in them at all! You are rather provoking, Edris!’
‘I am a connoisseur,’ Mr Tidson replied. ‘And when a connoisseur finds that what should be a masterpiece is nothing of the kind, honour compels him to say so. I suggest, my dear Crete, that you put your cocktail down.’
‘Just what she is doing,’ said Connie vulgarly, watching Crete’s tasting of the mixture. Thomas returned at this juncture with the glass on a silver salver.
‘Your drink, sir – laced,’ he observed.
‘Splendid!’ said Mr Tidson, sipping his drink. He waited until Thomas had gone, and then remarked, ‘It is amazing, my dear Connie, what a display of firmness will do.’
‘You must try it some time, Uncle Edris,’ said Connie angrily. Mr Tidson looked at her with an expression of concern, gulped his drink hastily, and choked.
‘It’s a verra great peety ye wouldn’t be content with the proper mixture,’ said Thomas, coming back with a table napkin and mopping up the cocktail that was spilt on Mr Tidson’s light-grey suit. ‘Maybe anither time ye’ll admit that this hoose kens whit’s guid for ye.’
This classic setting down of Mr Tidson struck everybody dumb except Connie, who, to the consternation of the guests at another table, suddenly put down her glass and went into hysterical laughter.
‘Dear, do control yourself,’ said her aunt. Connie wiped her eyes, apologized, gulped down her drink, and fled out into the garden.
‘I can’t think why Connie is quite so ill-mannered,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘I do apologize for her. She has made us the cynosure of all eyes, and that, in a public place, is unforgivable. I will go and call her in. She shall at least say she is sorry.’
Connie, it proved, was ready enough to do this, and she sat down very meekly and waited for lunch to be announced.
‘Talking of plans, I must say I had hoped that some one or two of you would come and sit on the bank and watch me fish,’ observed Mr Tidson, in an attempt to recover his poise.
‘Not to-morrow, Edris,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘I really must do up my Mothers.’
‘Perhaps I will come,’ said Crete amiably. ‘That is, I will come if it is not too far to walk.’
‘No, no. I shall try the St Cross water again,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘I should like to fish the stretch by Itchen Abbas, but, alas! – it is privately owned and I have no acquaintance whatever, so far as I know, with the owner. Never mind! I must work out my ticket.’
‘I thought most of the water was privately owned,’ said Connie. ‘Do they allow you to take trout?’
‘He is not fishing for trout, but only for water-nymphs,’ said Crete, ‘and, as he says, he has his ticket.’
‘Could one be had up for murder if one caught a water-nymph?’ asked Connie.
‘Probably only for cruelty to animals, I should say,’ Crete replied. ‘Perhaps, Edris, you would rather be alone?’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘Do come with me, my dear. The naiad might recognize in you a fellow-countrywoman.’
‘Half a fellow-countrywoman,’ said Connie. Crete looked at her with lazy hostility.
‘You ought to be more agreeable to Crete,’ said Miss Carmody, getting her niece to herself after lunch, although Mrs Bradley, writing a letter to Laura, was seated at a desk in the window. ‘And to Edris, too.’
‘I am as agreeable as I can bear to be,’ said Connie. ‘I don’t like Uncle Edris, and I don’t like Crete, and I wish we hadn’t come to Winchester with them. And I do my best to please you, Aunt Prissie, you know I do, but I think it’s time I lived my own life, and I’m going to, as soon as we go home. I am sorry about the cocktails, but I can’t go on like this. You can’t expect it. I know you think I’m rude to Uncle Edris, but it’s the way I keep him from frightening me, that’s all.’
‘Now, what does that mean?’ asked Miss Carmody. ‘It sounds like nonsense again.’
‘I’m going to get a job. In fact, I’ve got one. It is at four pounds ten shillings a week, and I have already been interviewed. It’s time I had my own money. I don’t intend to live on charity, and I shan’t!’ cried Connie, ending up with a gasp.
‘Charity?’ said Miss Carmody, disguising, she hoped, her real feelings. ‘But, Connie dear, there was never any question of that. I’ve been only too glad to have you. You must know what an interest and comfort you’ve been, and I always thought—’
‘Well, you need not think it any more! I’m off!’ said Connie crudely. Miss Carmody was deeply upset. She swallowed, looked with compassionate horror at her niece, and then walked out of the room.