“No,” said Paul decisively.
“Well, then, I’ll tell you another thing,” said Beste-Chetwynde. “You know that man Philbrick. Well, I think there’s something odd about him.”
“I’ve no doubt of it.”
“It’s not just that he’s such a bad butler. The servants are always ghastly here. But I don’t believe he’s a butler at all.”
“I don’t quite see what else he can be.”
“Well, have you ever known a butler with a diamond tiepin?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“Well, Philbrick’s got one, and a diamond ring too. He showed them to Brolly. Colossal great diamonds, Brolly says. Philbrick said he used to have bushels of diamonds and emeralds before the war, and that he used to eat off gold plate. We believe that he’s a Russian prince in exile.”
“Generally speaking, Russians are not shy about using their titles, are they? Besides, he looks very English.”
“Yes, we thought of that, but Brolly said lots of Russians came to school in England before the war. And now I am going to play the organ,” said Beste-Chetwynde. “After all, my mother does pay five guineas a term extra for me to learn.”
VI
Conduct
Sitting over the Common Room fire that afternoon waiting for the bell for tea, Paul found himself reflecting that on the whole the last week had not been quite as awful as he had expected. As Beste-Chetwynde had told him, he was a distinct success with his form; after the first day an understanding had been established between them. It was tacitly agreed that when Paul wished to read or to write letters he was allowed to do so undisturbed while he left them to employ the time as they thought best; when Paul took it upon him to talk to them about their lessons they remained silent, and when he set them work to do some of it was done. It had rained steadily, so that there had been no games. No punishments, no reprisals, no exertion, and in the evenings the confessions of Grimes, any one of which would have glowed with outstanding shamelessness from the appendix to a treatise in psychoanalysis.
Mr. Prendergast came in with the post.
“A letter for you, two for Grimes, nothing for me,” he said. “No one ever writes to me. There was a time when I used to get five or six letters a day, not counting circulars. My mother used to file them for me to answer—one heap of charity appeals, another for personal letters, another for marriages and funerals, another for baptisms and churchings and another for anonymous abuse. I wonder why it is the clergy always get so many letters of that sort, sometimes from quite educated people. I remember my father had great trouble in that way once, and he was forced to call in the police because they became so threatening. And, do you know, it was the curate’s wife who had sent them—such a quiet little woman. There’s your letter. Grimes’ look like bills. I can’t think why shops give that man credit at all. I always pay cash, or at least I should if I ever bought anything. But d’you know that, except for my tobacco and the Daily News and occasionally a little port when it’s very cold, I don’t think I’ve bought anything for two years. The last thing I bought was that walking stick. I got it at Shanklin, and Grimes uses it for beating the boys with. I hadn’t really meant to buy one, but I was there for the day—two years this August—and I went into the tobacconist’s to buy some tobacco. He hadn’t the sort I wanted, and I felt I couldn’t go without getting something, so I bought that. It cost one and six,” he added wistfully, “so I had no tea.”
Paul took his letter. It had been forwarded from Onslow Square. On the flap were embossed the arms of Scone College. It was from one of his four friends.
Scone College, F.C.R.
OxfordMy Dear Pennyfeather (it ran),
I need hardly tell you how distressed I was when I heard of your disastrous misfortune. It seems to me that a real injustice has been done to you. I have not heard the full facts of the case, but I was confirmed in my opinion by a very curious incident last evening. I was just going to bed when Digby-Vaine-Trumpington came into my rooms without knocking. He was smoking a cigar. I had never spoken to him before, as you know, and was very much surprised at his visit. He said: “I’m told you are a friend of Pennyfeather’s.” I said I was, and he said: “Well, I gather I’ve rather got him into a mess.” I said: “Yes,” and he said: “Well, will you apologize to him for me when you write?” I said I would. Then he said: “Look here, I’m told he’s rather poor. I thought of sending him some money—£20 for sort of damages you know. It’s all I can spare at the moment. Wouldn’t it be a useful thing to do?” I fairly let him have it, I can tell you, and told him just what I thought of him for making such an insulting suggestion. I asked him how he dared treat a gentleman like that just because he wasn’t in his awful set. He seemed rather taken aback and said: “Well, all my friends spend all their time trying to get money out of me,” and went off.
I bicycled over to St. Magnus’s at Little Bechley and took some rubbings of the brasses there. I wished you had been with me.
