Edward Albert felt a spasm of hatred for Mr Myame.
“Of course, p’raps they teach you better in the College,” said Edward Albert, and then, mitigating the blow; “Faster like.”
“There’s no Royal Road to Learning,” said Mr Myame. “No. ‘Thorough’, has always been my motto. Like the great Earl Strafford. So let us go down to the foundations, the Elements. What is the French, Tewler, for ‘the’?”
That was easy. “Ler Lar Lay,” sang Edward Albert.
“Elementary French,” said Mr Myame, “that is all he will ever have to study. Advanced French has an amount of innuendo in it.... I don’t admire it. I hope he will never be able to read French books or go on one of those trips they advertise nowadays to Boulogne or Paris. French literature even at its best is tainted by a curious continental flavour. There is something un-English about it. All that is worth while in it has been translated and suitably expurgated. Or much of it could not be published here. But let us get on with our little examination. Tell me again, Tewler, what is the French for ‘the’—in the singular.”
“Masculine, Ler; feminine, Lar.”
“And neuter, dear?” said Mrs Tewler encouragingly.
Mr Myame smiled gravely. “I am afraid there is no neuter in French. None whatever. ‘Lay’, the third word you heard, is simply the plural.
“The French language brings sex into everything,” Mr Myame proceeded to explain. “That is its nature. Everything is ‘il’ or ‘elle’. ‘Il’ is he and ‘elle’ is she. Nothing is neuter in French—nothing.”
“Extraordinary!” said Mrs Tewler.
“A table, oone table, is feminine, believe it or not. Oone shays, feminine also, is a chair. But a knife, oon canif, is masculine. Oon, you observe, not Oone. You notice the difference, masculine and female.”
“A male knife! A female chair! It makes me feel—quite uncomfortable,” said Mrs Tewler. “Why do they do it?”
“There it is. And now, Tewler, how do you say ‘the father and the mother’?”
“Le père ate la mère.”
“Good. Very good. And now for the plural.”
Gently but firmly Mr Myame led him on from this first reassuring stage to more difficult combinations. Various relations, an aunt, an uncle, a nephew, various objects, apples, books, gardens, houses, encumbered the mind; ownership, Mong and mar and note, complicated their relationship. By the time they got to “To the books of the aunt of the gardener of our house,” Edward Albert had lost his head completely. He was guessing and floundering. Mr Myame corrected him and tangled him up almost caressingly.
“You see,” said Mr Myame, “he has it in a sort of way, but he is unsound. He is not yet Thorough. The grounding is loose because so far he has not given his mind to it. Until he has all that firm and clear and hard as a rock, it would be a mere waste of money to send him on to the College....”
VII. Mr Myame Is Uneasy
Jim Whittaker had sent his large expensive wreath to Mrs Tewler’s funeral in accordance with the feudal traditions of Colebrook and Mahogany, and at the same time he had recalled with surprise that there must be some family or something that had never been looked up and looked over by the Firm. There was no need for anyone who had inherited Richard Tewler’s dexterity of hand and solicitude of manner to go wandering beyond its range. Mr Whittaker had made a memorandum on a bit of paper,
“Tewler boy query”, but it had slipped under some other papers and he had forgotten it under the pressure of the sale of the great Borgman collection. It was only some six months later that the scrap of paper turned up to recall him to his obligation, “God bless my Heart and Liver,” said Mr Jim.
“I might have lost sight of him!”
So one morning Mr Myame beetled over Edward Albert for some moments and then said: “Tewler. A word with you in my study.”
“What’s he found out now?” thought Edward Albert, for plainly there was trouble in the air.
“Siddown,” said Mr Myame, and became hairily and darkly interrogative with his head on one side. He trifled with various objects on his table and began rather slowly.
“I had ah—a visitant—so to speak, this morning. An inquirer. Who wanted to know, to put it briefly, everything he could possibly know about you. He wanted to know how old you are, what your abilities are, your prospects, what you hoped to do in the world.” (“ ‘Strordinary!” interjected Edward Albert.)” Among other things he asked who paid your school fees? I told him that, as your guardian, I did. I asked him by what authority he was making these—these investigations. He said on behalf of a Mr James Whittaker, who carries on a china and glass business under the alias—or shall we say? the pseudonym—of Colebrook and Mahogany. It seems your father worked for him—or them—whichever one ought to say. Do you know anything about this?”
“Why, it was ’im sent that great wreath at mother’s funeral!” said Edward Albert.
“I remember. A really extravagant wreath. Yes. It was that person. Now why should he suddenly want to know all these things?”
“Was it ’im?” asked Edward Albert.
“No. It was some sort of agent. Never mind. Have you by any chance written to this Mr Whittaker?”
“I ’adn’t got ’is address.”
Mr Myame regarded Edward Albert with a look of intense penetration. “Or you might have done so?”
“Jest to thank ’im for that wreath of ’is.”
Mr Myame dismissed some obscure suspicion. “Well, he seems to think he is entitled to know all about you. I would like to know how far he is. Your dear good mother made me your guardian. She was a sweet pure precious soul and your religious and moral welfare was her first thought and her last. She feared for you. Perhaps it was that very Mr James Whittaker with his pseudonyms and misrepresentation! that she feared. And if he wanted to communicate with you why should he resort to one of those Private Inquiry Agencies? Why should a Private Inquiry Agent come asking all sorts of questions about the conduct of my school?”
“I’ve read advertisements somewhere. ‘Does it take all that time shopping? Inquiries as to character. Missing relatives traced’. D’you think perhaps this Mr Whittaker is some sort of relation? Maybe he wasn’t thinking anything about the school. Didn’t mean any harm like. He’d just lost me and wanted to find me.”
“If he is a relation, then it is manifest your dear Mother thought he was not the sort of relation that would do you any good. This is all I wanted to ask you, Edward.”
The scrutiny intensified.
“You did not communicate your whereabouts to this Mr Whittaker—I believe that—and I would like you to give me your promise on your word of honour that you will not do anything of the sort. Except with my knowledge and consent.”
“I’d like to thank him for that lovely wreath, Sir. I think my mother would have appreciated that wreath.”
“I am not so sure, Edward. In this matter I ask you to be guided by me. As your dear mother wished. I might perhaps send him a message on your behalf.”
It was plain to Edward Albert’s cautious mind that the less he committed himself to Mr Myame and the sooner he found out what this Mr Whittaker was up to, the better.
“You know best, Sir,” he said. “Of course if he goes about pretending to be Colebrook and Mahogany, it certainly can’t be right....”