Oblivious, therefore, to the storm raging a yard away from him, he smoked on with great contentment, till suddenly it struck him that, for a presumably devout lover, jilted that very night, he was displaying too little emotion. He debated swiftly within himself whether he should have a dash at manly grief, but came to the conclusion that it could not be done. Melancholy on this maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year, the day on which he had utterly routed the powers of evil, as represented by Sir Thomas, was impossible.
“It wouldn’t have done, don’t you know,” he said. “We weren’t suited. What I mean to say is, I’m a bit of a dashed sort of silly ass in some ways, if you know what I mean. A girl like Miss McEachern couldn’t have been happy with me. She wants one of those capable, energetic fellers.”
This struck him as a good beginning—modest but not grovelling. He continued, tapping quite a respectably deep vein of philosophy as he spoke.
“You see, dear old top—I mean sir—you see, it’s like this. As far as women are concerned, fellers are divided into two classes. There’s the masterful, capable Johnnies and the—er—the other sort. Now, I’m the other sort. My idea of the happy married life is to be—well, not exactly downtrodden, but—you know what I mean—kind of second fiddle. I want a wife”—his voice grew soft and dreamy—“who’ll pet me a good deal, don’t you know, stroke my hair a lot, and all that. I haven’t it in me to do the master-in-my-own-house business. For me the silent-devotion touch—sleepin’ on the mat outside her door, don’t you know, when she wasn’t feeling well, and bein’ found there in the morning, and being rather cosseted for my thoughtfulness. That’s the sort of idea. Hard to put it quite OK, but you know the sort of thing I mean. A feller’s got to realise his jolly old limitations if he wants to be happy though married; what? Now, suppose Miss McEachern was to marry me! Great Scot, she’d be bored to death in a week! Honest. She couldn’t help herself. She wants a chap with the same amount of go in him that she’s got.”
He lit another cigarette. He was feeling pleased with himself. Never before had ideas marshalled themselves in his mind in such long and well-ordered ranks. He felt that he could go on talking like this all night. He was getting brainier every minute. He remembered reading in some book somewhere of a girl (or chappie) who had had her (or his) “hour of clear vision.” This was precisely what had happened now. Whether it was owing to the excitement of what had taken place that night, or because he had been keeping up his thinking powers with excellent dry champagne, he did not know. All he knew was that he felt on top of his subject. He wished he had had a larger audience. “A girl like Miss McEachern,” he resumed, “doesn’t want any of the hair-stroking business. She’d simply laugh at a feller if he asked for it. She needs a chappie of the Get On or Get Out type—somebody in the six-cylinder class. And as a matter of fact, between ourselves, I rather think she’s found him.”
“What?”
Mr. McEachern half rose from his chair. All his old fears had come surging back.
“What do you mean?”
“Fact,” said his lordship, nodding. “Mind you, I don’t know for certain. As the girl says in the song, I don’t know, but I guess. What I mean to say is, they seemed jolly friendly and all that—calling each other by their Christian names, and so on.”
“Who?”
“Pitt,” said his lordship. He was leaning back, blowing a smoke ring at the moment, so did not see the look on the other’s face and the sudden grip of his fingers on the arms of his chair. He went on with some enthusiasm.
“Jimmy Pitt!” he said. “Now, there’s a feller. Full of oats to the brim, and fairly bursting with go and energy. A girl wouldn’t have a dull moment with a chap like that. You know,” he proceeded confidentially, “there’s a lot in this idea of affinities. Take my word for it, dear old—sir. There’s a girl up in London, for instance. Now, she and I hit it off most amazingly. There’s hardly a thing we don’t think alike about. For instance, ‘The Merry Widow’ didn’t make a bit of a hit with her; nor did it with me, yet look at the millions of people who raved about it. And neither of us like oysters. We’re affinities—that’s why. You see the same sort of thing all over the place. It’s a jolly queer business. Sometimes makes me believe in re—in-what’s-its-name—you know what I mean. All that in the poem, you know. How does it go? ‘When you were a tiddley-om-pom and I was a thingummajig.’ Dashed brainy bit of work. I was reading it only the other day. Well, what I mean to say is, it’s my belief that Jimmy Pitt and Miss McEachern are by way of being something in that line. Doesn’t it strike you that they are just the sort to get on together? You can see it with half an eye. You can’t help liking a feller like Jimmy Pitt. He’s a sport! I wish I could tell you some of the things he’s done, but I can’t, for reasons; but you can take it from me he’s a sport. You ought to cultivate him. You’d like him. … Oh, dash it! there’s the music! I must be off.
