Rollo meditated bitterly as he drove home. It was not so much the fact that she had not come that stirred him. Many things may keep a girl from supper. It was the calm way in which she had ignored the invitation. When you send a girl three bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes, you do not expect an entire absence of recognition. Even a penny-in-the-slot machine treats you better than that. It may give you hairpins when you want matches but at least it takes some notice of you.
He was still deep in gloomy thought when he inserted his latchkey and opened the door of his flat.
He was roused from his reflections by a laugh from the sitting-room. He started. It was a pleasant laugh, and musical, but it sent Rollo diving, outraged, for the handle of the door. What was a woman doing in his sitting-room at this hour? Was his flat an hotel?
The advent of an unbidden guest rarely fails to produce a certain gêne. The sudden appearance of Rollo caused a dead silence.
It was broken by the fall of a chair on the carpet as Wilson rose hurriedly to his feet.
Rollo stood in the doorway, an impressive statue of restrained indignation. He could see the outlying portions of a girl in blue at the further end of the table, but Wilson obscured his vision.
"Didn't expect you back, sir," said Wilson.
For the first time in the history of their acquaintance his accustomed calm seemed somewhat ruffled.
"So I should think," said Rollo. "I believe you, by George!"
"You had better explain, Jim," said a dispassionate voice from the end of the table.
Wilson stepped aside.
"My wife, sir," he said, apologetically, but with pride.
"Your wife!"
"We were married this morning, sir."
The lady nodded cheerfully at Rollo. She was small and slight, with an impudent nose and a mass of brown hair.
"Awfully glad to meet you," she said, cracking a walnut.
Rollo gaped.
She looked at him again.
"We've met, haven't we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. And you sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you," she said, beaming.
She cracked another nut. She seemed to consider that the introductions were complete and that formality could now be dispensed with once more. She appeared at peace with all men.
The situation was slipping from Rollo's grip. He continued to gape.
Then he remembered his grievance
"I think you might have let me know you weren't coming to supper."
"Supper?"
"I sent a note to the theatre this afternoon."
"I haven't been to the theatre to-day. They let me off because I was going to be married. I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't wait long."
Rollo's resentment melted before the friendliness of her smile.
"Hardly any time," he said, untruthfully.
"If I might explain, sir," said Wilson.
"By George! if you can, you'll save me from a brainstorm. Cut loose, and don't be afraid you'll bore me. You won't."
"Mrs. Wilson and I are old friends, sir. We come from the same town. In fact-"
Rollo's face cleared.
"By George! Market what's-its-name! Why, of course. Then she-?"
"Just so, sir. If you recollect, you asked me once if I had ever been in love, and I replied in the affirmative."
"And it was-"
"Mrs. Wilson and I were engaged to be married before either of us came to London. There was a misunderstanding, which was entirely my-"
"Jim! It was mine."
"No, it was all through my being a fool."
"It was not. You know it wasn't!"
Rollo intervened.
"Well?"
"And when you sent me with the flowers, sir-well, we talked it over again, and-that was how it came about, sir."
The bride looked up from her walnuts.
"You aren't angry?" she smiled up at Rollo.
"Angry?" He reflected. Of course, it was only reasonable that he should be a little-well, not exactly angry, but-And then for the first time it came to him that the situation was not entirely without its compensations. Until that moment he had completely forgotten Mr. Galloway.
"Angry?" he said. "Great Scott, no! Jolly glad I came back in time to get a bit of the wedding-breakfast. I want it, I can tell you. I'm hungry. Here we all are, eh? Let's enjoy ourselves. Wilson, old scout, bustle about and give us your imitation of a bridegroom mixing a 'B. and S.' for the best man. Mrs. Wilson, if you'll look in at the theatre to-morrow you'll find one or two small wedding presents waiting for you. Three bouquets-they'll be a bit withered, I'm afraid-a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes. I hope he'll bring you luck. Oh, Wilson!"
"Sir?"
"Touching this little business-don't answer if it's a delicate question, but I should like to know-I suppose you didn't try the schedule. What? More the Market Thin-gummy method, eh? The one you described to me?"
"Market Bumpstead, sir?" said Wilson. "On those lines."
Rollo nodded thoughtfully.
"It seems to me," he said, "they know a thing or two down in Market Bumpstead."
"A very rising little place, sir," assented Wilson.
Sir Agravaine
A Tale of King Alfred's Round Table
Some time ago, when spending a delightful week-end at the ancestral castle of my dear old friend, the Duke of Weatherstonhope (pronounced Wop), I came across an old black letter MS. It is on this that the story which follows is based.
I have found it necessary to touch the thing up a little here and there, for writers in those days were weak in construction. Their idea of telling a story was to take a long breath and start droning away without any stops or dialogue till the thing was over.
I have also condensed the title. In the original it ran, " 'How it came about that ye good Knight Sir Agravaine ye Dolorous of ye Table Round did fare forth to succor a damsel in distress and after divers journeyings and perils by flood and by field did win her for his bride and right happily did they twain live ever afterwards,' by Ambrose ye monk."
It was a pretty snappy title for those times, but we have such a high standard in titles nowadays that I have felt compelled to omit a few yards of it.
We may now proceed to the story.
The great tournament was in full swing. All through the afternoon boiler-plated knights on mettlesome chargers had hurled themselves on each other's spears, to the vast contentment of all. Bright eyes shone; handkerchiefs fluttered; musical voices urged chosen champions to knock the cover off their brawny adversaries. The cheap seats had long since become hoarse with emotion. All round the arena rose the cries of itinerant merchants: "Iced malvoisie," "Score-cards; ye cannot tell the jousters without a score-card." All was revelry and excitement.
A hush fell on the throng. From either end of the arena a mounted knight in armour had entered.
The herald raised his hand.
"Ladeez'n gemmen! Battling Galahad and Agravaine the Dolorous. Galahad on my right, Agravaine on my left. Squires out of the ring. Time!"
A speculator among the crowd offered six to one on Galahad, but found no takers. Nor was the public's caution without reason.
A moment later the two had met in a cloud of dust, and Agravaine, shooting over his horse's crupper, had fallen with a metallic clang.
He picked himself up, and limped slowly from the arena. He was not unused to this sort of thing. Indeed, nothing else had happened to him in his whole jousting career.
The truth was that Sir Agravaine the Dolorous was out of his element at King Arthur's court, and he knew it. It was this knowledge that had given him that settled air of melancholy from which he derived his title.
Until I came upon this black-letter MS. I had been under the impression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of the Round Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Malory says nothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparently there were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must have been the chief.