Mrs. Herbert repeated her husband's triumph with "the," and then it was my turn again for these horrible camels. My only hope was that our host would ask me if I had been to the Zoo lately, but I didn't see why he should. He didn't.
"Would it surprise you to hear," he asked, "that the President of Czecho–Slovakia has a very long beard?"
"If it had only been 'goats,'" I murmured to myself. Aloud I said, "What?" in the hope of gaining a little more time.
He repeated his question.
"No," I said slowly, "no, it wouldn't," and I telegraphed an appeal to Celia for help. She nodded back at me.
"Have you finished?" asked our host.
"Good Lord, no, I shall be half an hour yet. The fact is you've asked the wrong question. You see, I've got to get in 'moss.'"
"I thought it was 'camels,'" said Celia carelessly.
"No, 'moss.' Now if you'd only asked me a question about gardening—You see, the proverb we wanted to have first of all was 'People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones,' only 'throw' was so difficult. Almost as difficult as—" I turned to Celia. "What was it you said just now? Oh yes, camels. Or stable doors, or frying–pans. However, there it is." And I enlarged a little more on the difficulty of getting in these difficult words.
"Thank you very much," said our host faintly when I had finished.
It was the last straw which broke the camel's back, and it was Herbert who stepped forward blithely with the last straw. Our host, as he admitted afterwards, was still quite in the dark, and with his last question he presented Herbert with an absolute gift.
"When do you go back to Devonshire?" he asked.
"We—er—return next month," answered Herbert. "I should say," he added hastily, "we go back next month."
My own private opinion was that the sooner he returned to Devonshire the better.
Disillusioned
The card was just an ordinary card, The letter just an ordinary letter. The letter simply said "Dear Mr. Brown, I'm asked by Mrs. Phipp to send you this"; The card said, "Mrs. Philby Phipp, At Home," And in a corner, "Dancing, 10 p.m.," No more—except a date, a hint in French That a reply would not be deemed offensive, And, most important, Mrs. Phipp's address.
Destiny, as the poets have observed (Or will do shortly) is a mighty thing. It takes us by the ear and lugs us firmly Down different paths towards one common goal, Paths pre–appointed, not of our own choosing; Or sometimes throws two travellers together, Marches them side by side for half a mile, Then snatches them apart and hauls them onward. Thus happened it that Mrs. Phipp and I Had never met to any great extent, Had never met, as far as I remembered, At all…. And yet there must have been a time When she and I were very near together, When some one told her, "That is Mr. Brown," Or introduced us "This is Mr. Brown," Or asked her if she'd heard of Mr. Brown; I know not what, I only know that now She stood At Home in need of Mr. Brown, And I had pledged myself to her assistance.
Behold me on the night, the latest word In all that separates the gentleman (And waiters) from the evening–dress–less mob, And graced, moreover, by the latest word In waistcoats such as mark one from the waiters. My shirt, I must not speak about my shirt; My tie, I cannot dwell upon my tie— Enough that all was neat, harmonious, And suitable to Mrs. Philby Phipp. Behold me, then, complete. A hasty search To find the card, and reassure myself That this is certainly the day—(It is)— And 10 p.m. the hour; "p.m.," not "a.m.," Not after breakfast—good; and then outside, To jump into a cab and take the winds, The cold east winds of March, with beauty. So.
Let us get on more quickly. Looms ahead Tragedy. Let us on and have it over.
I hung with men and women on the stairs And watched the tall white footman take the names, And heard him shout them out, and there I shaped My own name ready for him, "Mr. Brown." And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name, Would, I imagined, brighten suddenly And smile and say, "How are you, Mr. Brown?" And in an instant I'd remember her, And where we met, and who was Mr. Phipp, And all the jolly time at Grindelwald (If that was where it was); and she and I Would talk of Art and Politics and things As we had talked these many years ago…. So "Mr. Brown" I murmured to the man, And he—the fool!—he took a mighty breath And shouted, "Mr. BROWNIE!"—Brownie! Yes, He shouted "Mr. BROWNIE" to the roof. And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name, Brightened up suddenly and smiled and said, "How are you, Mr. Brownie?"—(Brownie! Lord!) And, while my mouth was open to protest, "How do you do?" to some one at the back. So I was passed along into the crowd As Brownie!
Who on earth is Mr. Brownie? Did he, I wonder, he and Mrs. Phipp Talk Art and Politics at Grindelwald, Or did one simply point him out to her With "That is Mr. Brownie?" Were they friends, Dear friends, or casual acquaintances? She brightened at his name, some memory Came back to her that brought a happy smile—Why surely they were friends! But I am Brown, A stranger, all unknown to Mrs. Phipp, As she to me, a common interloper—I see it now—an uninvited guest, Whose card was clearly meant for Mr. Brownie. Soft music fell, and the kaleidoscope Of lovely woman glided, swayed and turned Beneath the shaded lights; but Mr. Brownie (Né Brown, not Brownie) stood upon one side And brooded silently. Some spoke to him; Whether to Brown or Brownie mattered not, He did not answer, did not notice them, Just stood and brooded…. Then went home to bed.
A Few Tricks for Christmas
(In the Manner of Many Contemporaries)
Now that the "festive season" (copyright) is approaching, it behoves us all to prepare ourselves in some way to contribute to the gaiety of the Christmas house–party. A clever conjurer is welcome anywhere, and those of us whose powers of entertainment are limited to the setting of booby–traps or the arranging of apple–pie beds must view with envy the much greater tribute of laughter and applause which is the lot of the prestidigitator with some natural gift for legerdemain. Fortunately there are a few simple conjuring tricks which are within the reach of us all. With practice even the clumsiest of us can obtain sufficient dexterity in the art of illusion to puzzle the most observant of our fellow–guests. The few simple tricks which I am about to explain, if studied diligently for a few days before Christmas, will make a genuine addition to the gaiety of any gathering, and the amateur prestidigitator (if I may use that word again) will find that he is amply repaying the hospitality of his host and hostess by his contribution to the general festivity.
So much by way of introduction. It is a difficult style of writing to keep up, particularly when the number of synonyms for "conjuring" is so strictly limited. Let me now get to the tricks. I call the first
HOLDING THE LEMON
For this trick you want a lemon and a pack of ordinary playing–cards. Cutting the lemon in two, you hand half to one member of your audience and half to another, asking them to hold the halves up in full view of the company. Then, taking the pack of cards in your own hands, you offer it to a third member of the party, requesting him to select a card and examine it carefully. When he has done this he puts it back in the pack, and you seize this opportunity to look hurriedly at the face of it, discovering (let us say) that it is the five of spades. Once more you shuffle the pack; and then, going through the cards one by one, you will have no difficulty in locating the five of spades, which you will hold up to the company with the words "I think this is your card, sir"—whereupon the audience will testify by its surprise and appreciation that you have guessed correctly.