'You aren't fond of him, nor am I, but nobody can deny that he's eloquent. Audiences hang on his every word, and when he's finished cheer him to the echo.'
I nodded. I had had the same experience myself when singing The Yeoman's Wedding Song at village concerts. Two or three encores sometimes, even when I blew up in the words and had to fill in with 'Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along'. I began to feel
easier in my mind. I told her this, and she said 'Your what?'.
'You have put new heart into me, old blood relation,' I said, ignoring the crack. 'You see, it means everything to him to win this election.'
'Is he so bent on representing Market Snodsbury in the Westminster menagerie ? '
'It isn't that so much. Left to himself, I imagine he could take Parliament or leave it alone. But he thinks Florence will give him the bum's rush if he loses.'
'He's probably right. She can't stand a loser.'
'So he told me. Remember what happened to Percy Gorringe.'
'And others. England is strewn with ex-fianc6s whom she bounced because they didn't come up to her specifications. Dozens of them. I believe they form clubs and societies.'
'Perhaps calling themselves the Old Florentians.'
'And having an annual dinner !
' We mused on Florence for awhile; then she said she ought to be going to confer with Anatole about dinner tonight, urging him to dish up something special. It was vital, she said, that he should excel his always high standard.
'I was speaking, just now, when you interrupted me and turned my thoughts to the name Wilberforce, of L. P. Runkle.'
'You said you had an idea he might be going to co-operate.'
'Exactly. Have you ever seen a python after a series of hearty meals?'
'Not to my knowledge.'
'It gets all softened up. It becomes a kindlier, gentler, more lovable python. And if I am not greatly mistaken, the same thing is happening to L. P. Runkle as the result of Anatole's cooking. You saw him at dinner last night.'
'Sorry, no, I wasn't looking. Every fibre of my being was concentrated on the foodstuffs. He would have repaid inspection, would he? Worth seeing, eh?'
'He was positively beaming. He was too busy to utter, but it was plain that he had become all amiability and benevolence. He had the air of a man who would start scattering largesse if given a word of encouragement. It is for Anatole to see to it that this Christmas spirit does not evaporate but comes more and more to the boil. And I know that I can rely on him.'
'Good old Anatole,' I said, lighting a cigarette.
'Amen,' said the ancestor reverently; then, touching on another subject. 'Take that foul cigarette outside, you young hellhound. It smells like an escape of sewer gas.'
Always glad to indulge her lightest whim, I passed through the french window, in a far different mood from that in which I had entered the room. Optimism now reigned in the Wooster bosom. Ginger, I told myself, was going to be all right, Tuppy was going to be all right, and it would not be long before the laughing love god straightened things out between Madeline and Spode, even if he had talked out of turn about stars and daisy chains. Having finished the gasper, I was about to return and resume conversation with the aged relative, when from within there came the voice o? Seppings, now apparently restored to health, and what he was saying froze me in every limb. I couldn't have become stiffer if I had been Lot's wife, whose painful story I had had to read up when I won that Scripture Knowledge prize.
What he was saying ran as follows:
'Mrs. McCorkadale, madam.'
CHAPTER Ten
Leaning against the side of the house, I breathed rather in the manner copyrighted by the hart which pants for cooling streams when heated in the chase. The realization of how narrowly I had missed having to mingle again with this blockbusting female barrister kept me Lot's wife d for what seemed an hour or so, though I suppose it can't have been more than a few seconds. Then gradually I ceased to be a pillar of salt and was able to concentrate on finding out what on earth Ma McCorkadale's motive was in paying us this visit. The last place, I mean to say, where you would have expected to find her. Considering how she stood in regard to Ginger, it was as if Napoleon had dropped in for a chat with Wellington on the eve of Waterloo.
I have had occasion to mention earlier the advantages as a listening-post afforded by the just-outside-the- french-window spot where I was standing. Invisible to those within, I could take in all they were saying, as I had done with Spode and L. P. Runkle. Both had come through loud and clear, and neither had had a notion that Bertram Wooster was on the outskirts, hearing all. As I could hardly step in and ask her to repeat any of her remarks which I didn't quite catch, it was fortunate that the McCorkadale's voice was so robust, while Aunt Dahlia's, of course, would be audible if you were 94 at Hyde Park Corner and she in Piccadilly Circus. I have often thought that the deaf adder I read about when I won my Scripture Knowledge prize would have got the message right enough if the aged relative had been one of the charmers. I was able to continue leaning against the side of the house in full confidence that I shouldn't miss a syllable of either protagonist's words.
The proceedings started with a couple of Good mornings, Aunt Dahlia's the equivalent of 'What the hell? ', and then the McCorkadale, as if aware that it was up to her to offer a word of explanation, said she had called to see Mr. Winship on a matter of great importance.
'Is he in?'
Here was a chance for the ancestor to get one up by retorting that he jolly well would be after the votes had been counted, but she let it go, merely saying No, he had gone out, and the McCorkadale said she was sorry.
