“Just so, sir.”
Relief, as it always does, had given George a craving for conversation. He wanted to buttonhole some fellow-creature and babble. He would have preferred this fellow-creature to have been anyone but Ferris, for he had not forgotten the early passages of their acquaintanceship and seemed still to sense in the butler’s manner a lingering antipathy. But Ferris was there, so he babbled to him.
“Nice day, Ferris.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice weather.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice country round here.”
“No, sir.”
George was somewhat taken aback.
“Did you say, No, sir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, Yes, sir? I thought you said No, sir.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir.”
“You mean you don’t like the country round here?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I disapprove of it, sir.”
“Why?”
“It is not the sort of country to which I have been accustomed, sir. It is not like the country round Little-Seeping-in-the-Wold.”
“Where’s that?”
“In England, sir.”
“I suppose the English country’s nice?”
“I believe it gives uniform satisfaction, sir.”
George felt damped. In his mood of relief he had hoped that Ferris might have brought himself to sink the butler in the friend.
“What don’t you like about the country round here?”
“I disapprove of the mosquitoes, sir.”
“But there are only a few.”
“I disapprove of even one mosquito, sir.”
George tried again.
“I suppose everybody downstairs is very excited about the wedding, Ferris?”
“By ‘everybody downstairs’ you allude to … ?”
“The—er—the domestic staff.”
“I have not canvassed their opinions, sir. I mix very little with my colleagues.”
“I suppose you disapprove of them?” said George, nettled.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
The butler raised his eyebrows. He preferred the lower middle classes not to be inquisitive. However, he stooped to explain.
“Many of them are Swedes, sir, and the rest are Irish.”
“You disapprove of Swedes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Their heads are too square, sir.”
“And you disapprove of the Irish?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because they are Irish, sir.”
George shifted his feet uncomfortably.
“I hope you don’t disapprove of weddings, Ferris?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“They seem to me melancholy occasions, sir.”
“Are you married, Ferris?”
“A widower, sir.”
“Well, weren’t you happy when you got married?”
“No, sir.”
“Was Mrs. Ferris?”
“She appeared to take a certain girlish pleasure in the ceremony, sir, but it soon blew over.”
“How do you account for that?”
“I could not say, sir.”
“I’m sorry weddings depress you, Ferris. Surely when two people love each other and mean to go on loving each other. …”
“Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love. It merely mummifies its corpse.”
“But, Ferris, if there were no marriages, what would become of posterity?”
“I see no necessity for posterity, sir.”
“You disapprove of it?”
“Yes, sir.”
George walked pensively out on to the drive in front of the house. He was conscious of a diminution of the exuberant happiness which had led him to engage the butler in conversation. He saw clearly now that, Ferris’s conversation being what it was, a bridegroom who engaged him in it on his wedding-day was making a blunder. A suitable, even an ideal, companion for a funeral, Ferris seemed out of harmony when the joy-bells were ringing.
He looked out upon the pleasant garden with sobered gaze: and, looking, was aware of Sigsbee H. Waddington approaching. Sigsbee’s manner was agitated. He conveyed the impression of having heard bad news or of having made a discovery which disconcerted him.
“Say, listen!” said Sigsbee H. “What’s that infernal butler doing in the room with the wedding-presents?”
“Keeping guard over them.”
“Who told him to?”
“I did.”
“Hell’s bells!” said Sigsbee H.
He gave George a peculiar look and shimmered off. If George had been more in the frame of mind to analyse the looks of his future father-in-law, he might have seen in this one a sort of shuddering loathing. But he was not in the frame of mind. Besides, Sigsbee H. Waddington was not the kind of man whose looks one analysed. He was one of those negligible men whom one pushes out of sight and forgets about. George proceeded to forget about him almost immediately. He was still forgetting about him, when an automobile appeared round the bend of the drive and, stopping beside him, discharged Mrs. Waddington, Molly, and a man with a face like a horse whom, from his clerical costume, George took correctly to be the deputy from Flushing.
“Molly!” cried George.
“Here we are, angel,” said Molly.
“And mother!” said George, with less heartiness.
“Mother!” said Mrs. Waddington, with still less heartiness than George.
“This is the Reverend Gideon Voules,” said Molly. “He is going to marry us.”
“This,” said Mrs. Waddington, turning to the clergyman and speaking in a voice which seemed to George’s sensitive ear to contain too strong a note of apology, “is the bridegroom.”
The Reverend Gideon Voules looked at George with a dull and poached-egg-like eye. He did not seem to the latter to be a frightfully cheery sort of person: but, after all, when you’re married, you’re married, no matter how like a poached egg the presiding minister may look.
“How do you do?” said the Rev. Gideon.
“I’m fine,” said George. “How are you?”
“I am in robust health, I thank you.”
“Splendid! Nothing wrong with the ankles, eh?”
The Rev. Gideon glanced down at them and seemed satisfied with this section of his lower limbs, even though they were draped in white socks.
“Nothing, thank you.”
“So many clergymen nowadays,” explained George, “are falling off chairs and spraining them.”
“I never fall off chairs.”
“Then you’re just the fellow I’ve been scouring the country for,” said George. “If all clergymen were like you. …”
Mrs. Waddington came to life.
“Would you care for a glass of milk?”
“No, thank you, mother,” said George.
“I was not addressing you,” said Mrs. Waddington. “I was speaking to Mr. Voules. He has had a long drive and no doubt requires refreshment.”
“Of course, of course,” said George. “What am I thinking about? Yes, you must certainly stoke up and preserve your strength. We don’t want you fainting halfway through the ceremony.”
“He would have every excuse,” said Mrs. Waddington.
She led the way into the dining-room, where light refreshments were laid out on a side-table—a side-table brightly decorated by the presence of Sigsbee H. Waddington, who was sipping a small gin and tonic and watching with lowering gaze the massive imperturbability of Ferris, the butler. Ferris,
