‘I want you to give me some work to do for you—to let me come and sit with you in your study some mornings and ‘write things for you.’
Wilfrid laughed cheerily.
‘If I had a regard for my dignity,’ he said, ‘I certainly shouldn’t let you. What will become of my pretence of work when you are let into the secrets? But come, by all means. You shall digest a blue-book for me.’
‘When? Tomorrow morning?’
‘If you will.’
Beatrice was satisfied.
CHAPTER XXI
DANGEROUS RELICS
‘Beatrice is coming to act as my secretary this morning,’ Wilfrid said to his father, as they sat at breakfast on Monday.
‘Is she?’ remarked Mr. Athel, drily. ‘It had struck me that you were not very busy just now,’ he added, by way of natural comment.
The junior smiled.
‘By the way, she has only two more engagements—then it ceases.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said his father, with much satisfaction.
‘After all,’ observed Wilfrid, ‘you must remember that everyone knows she doesn’t sing for a living. Art, you know, is only contemptible when it supports the artist.’
‘Well, well, file your epigrams by all means; but we live in the world, Wilf. Criticise as smartly as you like; the danger only begins when you act upon your convictions.’
At half-past ten Beatrice arrived. She came into the study with a morning colour on her cheeks, threw off her mantle and hat, and let Wilfrid draw off her gloves, which somehow took a long time in the doing. She was full of bright, happy talk, most of it tending to show that she had already given the attention to the morning’s ‘leaders’ which was becoming in a politician’s betrothed.
‘Do you smoke whilst you are at work?’ she asked, descending from those high themes.
‘I allow myself a few cigarettes.’
‘Cigarettes? Surely that is too frivolous an accompaniment!’
‘O, it is only when I am musing upon the arguments of the Opposition.’
‘I see.’ Beatrice took the reply quite seriously. ‘But where is the blue-book you want me to digest?’
Wilfrid shook his head, looking at her with a smile.
‘You think me incompetent? But at least try me. I shan’t spoil anything.’
‘An illustration drawn from the art of millinery, I imagine.’
‘Don’t be unkind. I’m afraid you wouldn’t let me write your letters?’
‘By Jove! an excellent idea. Here’s one of the free and independent electors of G—writes to ask what my views are on the subject of compulsory vaccination. Do pen a reply and I’ll sign it.’
‘But what am I to say?’
‘The ghost of Jenner alone knows I offer it as an opportunity to show your fitness for this post. You have applied to me for work, Miss—Miss Redwing, I think your name is?’ He assumed the air of one applied to.
‘It is, sir.’
‘Come, come; that’s far too jaunty. You don’t at all understand the position of the person applying for work. You must be profoundly depressed; there must be half a tear in your eye; you must look hungry.’
‘O dear—I had such an excellent breakfast!’
‘Which clearly disqualifies you for the post you seek. However, Miss—Miss Redwing, I think you said?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Vastly better. The applicant must always be a little ashamed of his name; they learn that, you know, from the way in which they are addressed by employers. Well, I’ll give you a hint. Tell him he’s an ass, or he wouldn’t have needed to ask my opinion.’
‘I am to put that into parliamentary language?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And say nothing more definite?’
‘Really Miss—Miss Redwing, I begin to doubt the genuineness of your testimonials. You surely have learnt that the first essential of the art of public letter-writing is to say nothing whatever in as convincing a manner as possible.’
‘But if I tell him he’s a—a donkey?’
‘You fear it will be deviating into truth. There’s something in that. Say, then, that the matter is occupying my gravest attention, and that I hope to be able to reply definitely in the course of a few weeks.’
‘Very well. Where may I sit? But I can’t use a quill, dear boy.’
