“I am Black Bitch,’
‘ she had explained simply. “What do you want in my house?”
“I am Lady Courteney. I came to see General Connolly.”
“The General is drunk to-day and he doesn’t want any more ladies.”
After that Connolly was not asked even to Christmas luncheon.
Other less dramatic incidents occurred with most of the English community until now, after six years, the Bishop was the only resident who ever came to play croquet on the Legation lawn. Even his Lordship’s visits had become less welcome lately. His strength did not enable him to accomplish both journeys in the same day, so that an invitation to luncheon involved also an invitation for the night and, usually, to luncheon next day as well. More than this the Envoy Extraordinary found these in-cursions from the outside world increasingly disturbing and exhausting as his momentary interest in Azania began to subside. The Bishop would insist on talking about Problems and Policy, Welfare, Education and Finance. He knew all about native law and customs and the relative importance of the various factions at court. He had what Sir Samson considered an ostentatious habit of referring by name to members of the royal household and to provincial governors, whom Sir Samson was content to remember as ‘the old black fellow who drank so much Kummel’ or ‘that what-do-you-call-him Prudence said was like Aunt Sarah’ or ‘the one with glasses and gold teeth.’
Besides the Bishop’s croquet was not nearly up to Legation standards.
As it happened however they found him at table when, twenty minutes late for luncheon, Prudence and William returned from their ride.
“Do you know.’
‘ said Lady Courteney, “I thought for once you had been massacred. It would have pleased Monsieur Ballon so much. He is always warning me of the danger of allowing you to go out alone during the crisis. He was on the telephone this morning asking what steps we had taken to fortify the Legation. Madame Ballon has made sandbags and put them all round the windows. He told me he was keeping his last cartridge for Madame Ballon.”
“Every one is in a great state of alarm in the town,’
‘ said the Bishop. “There are so many ru mours. Tell me, Sir Samson, you do not think really, seriously, there is any danger of a massacre?”
The Envoy Extraordinary said: “We seem to have tinned asparagus for luncheon every day… I can’t think why… I’m so sorry—you were talking about the massacre. Well, I hardly know. I haven’t really thought about it… Yes, I suppose there might be one. I don’t see what’s to stop them, if the fellows take it into their heads. Still I daresay it’ll all blow over, you know. Doesn’t do to get worried… I should have thought we could have grown it ourselves. Much better than spending so much time on that Dutch garden. So like being on board ship, eating tinned asparagus.”
For some minutes Lady Courteney and Sir Sam-son discussed the relative advantages of tulips and asparagus. Presently the Bishop said: “One of the things which brought me here this morning was to find out if there was any News. If I could take back something certain to the town… You cannot imagine the distress every one is in… It is silence for so many weeks and the rumours. Up here you must at least know what is going on.”
“News,” said the Envoy Extraordinary. “News. Well, we’ve generally got quite a lot going on. Let’s see, when were you here last? You knew that the Anstruthers have decided to enter David for Uppingham? Very sensible of them, I think. And Percy Legge’s sister in England is going to be married—the one who was out here staying with them last year—you remember her? Betty Anstruther got run away with and had a nasty fall the other morning. I thought that pony was too strong for the child. What else is there to tell the Bishop, my dear.”
“The Legges’ frigidaire is broken and they can’t get it mended until after the war. Poor Captain Walsh has been laid up with fever again. Prudence began another novel the other day… or wasn’t I to tell about that, darling?”
“You certainly were not to. And anyway it isn’t a novel. It’s a Panorama of Life. Oh, I’ve got some news for all of you. Percy scored twelve-hundred-and-eighty at bagatelle this morning.”
“No, I say,” said Sir Samson, “did he really?”
“Oh, but that was on the chancery table,” said William. “I don’t count that. We’ve all made colossal scores there. The pins are bent. I still call my eleven-hundred-and-sixty-five at the Anstruthers’ a record.”
For some minutes they discussed the demerits of the chancery bagatelle table. Presently the Bishop said: “But is there no news about the war?”
“No, I don’t think so. Can’t remember anything particularly. I leave all that to Walsh, you know, and he’s down with fever at the moment. I daresay when he comes back we shall hear something. He 7* keeps in touch with all these local affairs… There were some cables the other day, now I come to think of it. Was there anything about the war in them, William, d’you know?”
“I can’t really say, sir. The truth is we’ve lost the cypher book again.”
“Awful fellow, William, he’s always losing things.
What would you say if you had a chaplain like that.
Bishop? Well, as soon as it turns up, get them de cyphered, will you. There might be something wanting an answer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and, William—I think you ought to get those pins put straight on the chancery bagatelle board. It’s an awful waste of time playing if it doesn’t run true.”
“Golly,” said William to Prudence when they were alone. “Wasn’t the Envoy on a high horse at luncheon. Telling me off right and left. First about the cypher book and then about the bagatelle. Too humiliating.”
“Poor sweet, he was only showing off to the Bishop. He’s probably frightfully ashamed of himself already.”
“That’s all very well, but why should I be made to look a fool just so as he can impress the Bishop?”
“Sweet, sweet William, please don’t be in a rage.
