'Have you read my last book, The Cageless Linnet?' he asked.
'I don't read novels,' said Caiaphas tersely.
'Oh, but you ought to read this one, every one ought to,' exclaimed Mellowkent, fishing the book down from a shelf; 'published at six shillings, you can have it at four-and-six.
There is a bit in chapter five that I feel sure you would like, where Emma is alone in the birch copse waiting for Harold Huntingdon--that is the man her family want her to marry.
She really wants to marry him, too, but she does not discover that till chapter fifteen.
Listen: 'Far as the eye could stretch rolled the mauve and purple billows of heather, lit up here and there with the glowing yellow of gorse and broom, and edged round with the delicate greys and silver and green of the young birch trees. Tiny blue and brown butterflies fluttered above the fronds of heather, revelling in the sunlight, and overhead the larks were singing as only larks can sing. It was a day when all Nature--'
'In 'Right Here' you have full information on all branches of Nature study,' broke in the bookagent, with a tired note sounding in his voice for the first time; 'forestry, insect life, bird migration, reclamation of waste lands. As I was saying, no man who has to deal with the varied interests of life--'
'I wonder if you would care for one of my earlier books, The Reluctance of Lady Cullumpton,' said Mellowkent, hunting again through the bookshelf; 'some people consider it my best novel. Ah, here it is. I see there are one or two spots on the cover, so I won't ask more than three-and-ninepence for it. Do let me read you how it opens:
''Beatrice Lady Cullumpton entered the long, dimly-lit drawing-room, her eyes blazing with a hope that she guessed to be groundless, her lips trembling with a fear that she could not disguise. In her hand she carried a small fan, a fragile toy of lace and satinwood. Something snapped as she entered the room; she had crushed the fan into a dozen pieces.'
'There, what do you think of that for an opening? It tells you at once that there's something afoot.'
'I don't read novels,' said Caiaphas sullenly.
'But just think what a resource they are,' exclaimed the author, 'on long winter evenings, or perhaps when you are laid up with a strained ankle--a thing that might happen to any one; or if you were staying in a house-party with persistent wet weather and a stupid hostess and insufferably dull fellow-guests, you would just make an excuse that you had letters to write, go to your room, light a cigarette, and for three-and-ninepence you could plunge into the society of Beatrice Lady Cullumpton and her set. No one ought to travel without one or two of my novels in their luggage as a stand- by. A friend of mine said only the other day that he would as soon think of going into the tropics without quinine as of going on a visit without a couple of Mark Mellowkents in his kit-bag. Perhaps sensation is more in your line. I wonder if I've got a copy of The Python's Kiss.'
Caiaphas did not wait to be tempted with selections from that thrilling work of fiction.
With a muttered remark about having no time to waste on monkey-talk, he gathered up his slighted volume and departed. He made no audible reply to Mellowkent's cheerful
'Good morning,' but the latter fancied that a look of respectful hatred flickered in the cold grey eyes.
The Hedgehog
A 'Mixed Double' of young people were contesting a game of lawn tennis at the Rectory garden party; for the past five-and-twenty years at least mixed doubles of young people had done exactly the same thing on exactly the same spot at about the same time of year.
The young people changed and made way for others in the course of time, but very little else seemed to alter. The present players were sufficiently conscious of the social nature of the occasion to be concerned about their clothes and appearance, and sufficiently sport-loving to be keen on the game. Both their efforts and their appearance came under the fourfold scrutiny of a quartet of ladies sitting as official spectators on a bench immediately commanding the court. It was one of the accepted conditions of the Rectory garden party that four ladies, who usually knew very little about tennis and a great deal about the players, should sit at that particular spot and watch the game. It had also come to be almost a tradition that two ladies should be amiable, and that the other two should be Mrs. Dole and Mrs. Hatch-Mallard.
'What a singularly unbecoming way Eva Jonelet has taken to doing her hair in,' said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; 'it's ugly hair at the best of times, but she needn't make it look ridiculous as well. Some one ought to tell her.'
Eva Jonelet's hair might have escaped Mrs. Hatch-Mallard's condemnation if she could have forgotten the more glaring fact that Eva was Mrs. Dole's favourite niece. It would, perhaps, have been a more comfortable arrangement if Mrs. Hatch-Mallard and Mrs.
Dole could have been asked to the Rectory on separate occasions, but there was only one garden party in the course of the year, and neither lady could have been omitted from the list of invitations without hopelessly wrecking the social peace of the parish.
'How pretty the yew trees look at this time of year,' interposed a lady with a soft, silvery voice that suggested a chinchilla muff painted by Whistler.
'What do you mean by this time of year?' demanded Mrs. Hatch- Mallard. 'Yew trees look beautiful at all times of the year. That is their great charm.'
'Yew trees never look anything but hideous under any circumstances or at any time of year,' said Mrs. Dole, with the slow, emphatic relish of one who contradicts for the pleasure of the thing. 'They are only fit for graveyards and cemeteries.'
Mrs. Hatch-Mallard gave a sardonic snort, which, being translated, meant that there were some people who were better fitted for cemeteries than for garden parties.
'What is the score, please?' asked the lady with the chinchilla voice.
The desired information was given her by a young gentleman in spotless white flannels, whose general toilet effect suggested solicitude rather than anxiety.
'What an odious young cub Bertie Dykson has become!' pronounced Mrs. Dole, remembering suddenly that Bertie was a favourite with Mrs. Hatch-Mallard. 'The young men of to-day are not what they used to be twenty years ago.'
'Of course not,' said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; 'twenty years ago Bertie Dykson was just two years old, and you must expect some difference in appearance and manner and conversation between those two periods.'
'Do you know,' said Mrs. Dole, confidentially, 'I shouldn't be surprised if that was intended to be clever.'
