‘Oh, really, I don’t know much about these things. Thumbscrew, I suppose, then there was the rack, the boot and the peine forte et dur, but I always think a night-light under the sole of the foot would be as good as anything.’
‘Do stop,’ said Sophia, putting her fingers in her ears. She could never bear to hear of tortures.
‘Actually I wonder if he would do it with such gusto if he had the thumbscrew hanging over him, so to speak. I mean he does get the stuff off his chest as if he really enjoyed it – eh?’
‘You forget,’ said Lady Beech, ‘that Ivor was nothing if not an artist. Once he began to sing he would be certain to do it well, whatever the circumstances. That he could not help.’
‘Oh, poor old gentleman,’ said Sophia, ‘it would really have been better for him to have died on Kew Pagoda all along.’
‘Very, very much better,’ said Lady Beech. ‘Now, tell me, Lord Edward (I am changing the subject to one hardly less painful) supposing, I say supposing anybody had a very small sum of money to invest, what should you yourself advise doing with it? I don’t mean speaking as a Member of the Cabinet; I just want your honest advice.’
‘Personally,’ said Ned, brightening up, ‘I should put it on a horse. I mean, a sum like that, the sort of sum you describe, is hardly worth saving, is it? Why not go a glorious bust on Sullivan in the 3.30 tomorrow?’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew how unlucky I am, would he, child?’ she said to Sophia; ‘but what I really wanted to know about is these defence loans, to buy or not to buy? I thought you could advise me.’
Ned gave a guilty jump and said the defence loans were just the very thing for her. ‘I bought a certificate for my little nipper today,’ he said, ‘but the little blighter wanted it in hard cash. Couldn’t blame the kid either – I mean, of course, at that age. In fifteen years he’ll be glad – if he’s not dead. Well,’ he looked importantly at his watch, ‘I must be getting back to No. 10.’
‘Child,’ said Lady Beech, ‘have you got Rawlings with you? No? Then perhaps Lord Edward will escort me to a bus.’
Fred and Sophia decided to make a night of it. They went to several very gay restaurants and then to a night club. Here, many hours after they had left the Carlton, Fred talked about his Ideals. It seemed that, at night, as he watched his Blossom careering about among the stars, Ideals had come to Fred, and he had resolved, should he ever again achieve Cabinet rank, that he would be guided by them.
‘I used to go on, you know, from day to day, doing things just as they came without any purpose in my life. But now it will be different.’
Sophia had heard this kind of talk before; it sounded horribly as though the Brotherhood was claiming another victim. Apparently however, this time it was Federal Union, and Fred expounded its theories to her at great length.
‘So what d’you think of it?’ he said when he had finished.
‘Well, darling, I didn’t quite take it in. I feel rather deliciously muzzy to tell you the truth, you know the feeling, like that heavenly anaesthetic they give you nowadays.’
‘Oh.’ Fred was disappointed.
‘Tell me again, darling, and I’ll listen more carefully.’
He told her.
‘Well, if it means the whole world is going to be ruled by the English, I’m all for it.’
‘Oh no, it’s not like that at all; I must have explained it badly.’
He began again, taking enormous trouble.
Presently someone Sophia knew came up to their table. Sophia was feeling extremely vague. She introduced Fred as Sir Frederick Union. After this he took her home.
9
The Lieder König had just finished one of his Pets’ Programmes. These were a terrible thorn in the side of the authorities, who considered that all the other pieces in his repertoire were exceedingly harmless, although the news which was thrown in at the end always included some item proving that the German Secret Service arrangements for transmitting facts to Berlin had ours beat by about twelve hours, and this certainly did tease the M.I. rather. But the Pets’ Programmes were a definite menace. Playing upon the well-known English love of animals the wily Hun provided this enormous treat for the pets of the United Kingdom.
‘Bring your Bow-wow, your Puss-puss, your Dickie-bird, your Moo-cow, your Gee-gee, your Mousie and your three little fishes to the radio. Or, take the radio out to the stables if your pets cannot be brought indoors. For those raising hens on the battery system these concerts should prove profitable indeed – few hens can resist laying an egg after hearing the Lieder König. The real object of these programmes is not, however, a mercenary one, the object is to bring joy to the hearts of dumb creatures, too many of whom spend a joyless life without song. There is no need for your pets to belong to this category any more; bring them all to the radio and see what pleasure you will give them. The Lieder König himself, who can sing so high that bats can hear him, and so low that buffaloes can, is here expressly to minister to your dumb ones, and bring them strength through joy.’
The old gentleman then came to the radio and gave first a little talk about the muddle of animal A.R.P. in London. Few dogs and no cats, he said, carried gas masks, and gas-proof cages for birds and mice were the exception rather than the rule. The animal First Aid Posts were scandalously few and ill equipped. The evacuation scheme had not been a success, and
