A Duet, with an Occasional Chorus Part 33

'They do distract one so,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.

The great thing was to admit no one save those earnest spirits who would aspire to get the full benefit from their studies. Mrs.

Fortescue could not be thought of, she was much too talkative. And Mrs. Jones had such a frivolous mind. Mrs. Charles could think and talk of nothing but her servants. And Mrs. Patt-Beatson always wanted to lay down the law. Perhaps on the whole it would be better to start the society quietly among themselves, and then gradually to increase it. The first meeting should be next Wednesday, at Mrs.

Crosse's house, and Mrs. Hunt Mortimer would bring her complete two- volume edition with her. Mrs. Beecher thought that one volume would be enough just at first, but Mrs. Hunt Mortimer said that it was better to have a wide choice. Maude went home and told Frank in the evening. He was pleased, but rather sceptical.

'You must begin with the simpler things first,' said he. 'I should recommend Herve Riel and Gold Hair.'

But Maude put on the charming air of displeasure which became her so well.

'We are serious students, sir,' said she. 'We want the very hardest poem in the book. I a.s.sure you, Frank, that one of your little faults is that you always underrate a woman's intelligence. Mrs.

Hunt Mortimer says that though we may be less original than men, we are more a.s.sim--more a.s.smun--'

'a.s.simulative.'

'That's what I say--a.s.simulative. Now, you always talk as if--oh yes, you do! No, you mustn't! How absurd you are, Frank! Whenever I try to speak seriously to you, you always do that and spoil everything. How would you like to discuss Browning if at the end of every sentence somebody came and kissed you? You wouldn't mind! No, I dare say not. But you would feel that you were not being taken seriously. Wait till the next time YOU are in earnest about anything--you'll see!'

The meeting was to be at three o'clock, and at ten minutes to the hour Mrs. Hunt Mortimer arrived with two large brown volumes under her arm. She had come early, she said, because there was to be a rehearsal of the amateur theatricals at the Dixons' at a quarter-past four. Mrs. Beecher did not appear until five minutes after the hour.

Her cook had quarrelled with the housemaid, and given instantaneous notice, with five people coming to dinner on Sat.u.r.day. It had upset the lady very much, and she explained that she would not have come if she had not promised. It was so difficult to follow poetry when you were thinking about the entree all the time.

'Why the entree?' asked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, looking up from the book which she held open in front of her.

'My dear,' said Mrs. Beecher, who had the art of saying the most simple things as if they were profoundly confidential secrets,--'My dear, my parlourmaid is really an excellent cook, and I shall rely upon her if Martha really goes. But she is limited, very limited, and entrees and savouries are the two things in which I cannot entirely trust her. I must, therefore, find some dish which is well within her capacity.'

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer prided herself upon her housekeeping, so the problem interested her. Maude also began to feel the meeting less dull than she had expected.

'Of course there are many things to be considered,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, with the air of a Q.C. giving an opinion. 'Oyster patties or oyster vol-au-vents--'

'Oysters are out of season,' said Maude.

'I was about to say,' Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued, with admirable presence of mind, 'that these entrees of oysters are inadmissible because they are out of season. Now curried prawns--'

'My husband loathes them.'

'Well, well! What do you say to sweetbreads en caisse? All you want are chopped mushrooms, shalots, parsley, nutmeg, pepper, salt, breadcrumb, bacon fat--'

'No, no,' cried Mrs. Beecher despairingly. 'Anne would never remember all that.'

'Cutlets a la Constance,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. 'I am sure that they are simple enough. Cutlets, b.u.t.ter, fowls' livers, c.o.c.ks'

combs, mushrooms--'

'My dear, my dear, remember that she is only a parlourmaid. It is unreasonable.'

'Ragout of fowl, chicken patties, croquettes of veal with a little browning--'

'We've got back to Browning after all,' cried Maude.

'Dear me,' said Mrs. Beecher, 'it is all my fault, and I am so sorry.

Now, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, do please read us a little of that delightful poetry.'

'You can always get small entrees sent down from the Stores,' cried Maude, as a happy thought.

'You dear, good girl, how sweet of you to think of it. Of course one can. That is really an admirable idea. There now, we may consider the entree as being removed, so we proceed to--'

'The piece de resistance,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer solemnly, glancing down the index of the first volume. 'I confess that my acquaintance with the poet has up to now been rather superficial. Our ambition must be to so master him that he becomes from this time forward part and parcel of ourselves. I fancy that the difficulties in understanding him have been very much exaggerated, and that with goodwill and perseverance we shall manage to overcome them.'

It was a relief to Mrs. Beecher and to Maude to realise that Mrs.

Hunt Mortimer knew no more about the matter than themselves. They both ventured upon a less diffident air now that it was clear that it might be done in safety. Maude frowned thoughtfully, and Mrs.

Beecher cast up her pretty brown eyes at the curtain-rod, as if she were running over in her memory the whole long catalogue of the poet's works.

'I will tell you what we should do,' said she. 'We must make a vow that we shall never pa.s.s a line until we understand it. We will go over it again and again until we grasp its meaning.'

'What an excellent idea!' cried Maude, with one of her little bursts of enthusiasm. 'Now that is really splendid, Mrs. Beecher.'

'My friends always call me Nellie,' said the little brunette.

'How nice of you to say so! I should love to call you so, if you don't mind. It is such a pretty name too. Only you must call me Maude.'

'You look like a Maude,' said Mrs. Beecher. 'I always picture a Maude as bright and pretty and blonde. Isn't it strange how names a.s.sociate themselves with characters. Mary is always domestic, and Rose is a flirt, and Elizabeth is dutiful, and Evelyn is das.h.i.+ng, and Alice is colourless, and Helen is masterful--'

'And Matilda is impatient,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, laughing.

'Matilda has reason to be, seated here with an index in front of her while you two are exchanging compliments.'

'Why, we were waiting for you to begin,' said Mrs. Beecher reproachfully. 'Do let us have something, for really the time is slipping away.'

'It would be a pity to begin at the beginning, because that represents his immature genius,' remarked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. 'I think that on this the opening day of the Society, we should have the poet at his best.'

'How are we to know which IS his best?' Maude asked.

'I should be inclined to choose something with a t.i.tle which suggests profundity--"A Pretty Woman," "Love in a Life," "Any Wife to any Husband"--'

'Oh, what DID she say to him?' cried Maude.

'Well, I was about to say that all these subjects rather suggested frivolity.'

'Besides, it really is a very absurd t.i.tle,' remarked Mrs. Beecher, who was fond of generalising from her six months' experience of matrimony. '_A_ husband to _A_ wife' would be intelligible, but how can you know what ANY husband would say to ANY wife? No one can really foretell what a man will do. They really are such extraordinary creatures.'

But Mrs. Hunt Mortimer had been married for five years, and felt as competent to lay down the law about husbands as about entrees.

'When you have had a larger experience of them, dear, you will find that there is usually a reason, or at least a primitive instinct of some sort, at the root of their actions. But, seriously, we must really concentrate our attention upon the poet, for my other engagement will call me away at four, which only leaves me ten minutes to reach Maybury.'

Mrs. Beecher and Maude settled down with anxious attention upon their faces.

'Do please go on!' they cried.

'Here is "The Pied Piper of Hamelin."'

'Now that interests me more than I can tell,' cried Maude, with her eyes s.h.i.+ning with pleasure. 'Do please read us everything there is about that dear piper.'