A Housing Problem
The Solution of an Insoluble Dilemma
“I’m in a frightful position,” exclaimed Mrs. Duff-Chugleigh, sinking into an armchair and closing her eyes as though to shut out some distressing vision.
“Really? What has happend?” said Mrs. Pallitson, preparing herself to hear some kitchen tragedy.
“The more one tries to make one’s house-parties a success, the more one seems to court failure,” was the tragical reply.
“I’m sure it’s been most enjoyable so far,” said the guest politely; “weather, of course, one can’t count on, but otherwise I can’t see that anything has gone wrong. I was thinking you were to be congratulated.”
Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh laughed harshly and bitterly.
“It was so nice having the marchioness here,” she said; “she’s dull and she dresses badly, but people in these parts think no end of her, and, of course, it’s rather a social score to get hold of her. It counts for a good deal to be in her good graces. And now she talks of leaving us at a moment’s notice.”
“Really? That is unfortunate, but I’m sure she’ll be sorry to leave such a charming—”
“She’s not leaving in sorrow,” said the hostess; “no—in anger.”
“Anger?”
“Bobbie Chermbacon called her, to her face, a moth-eaten old hen. That’s not the sort of thing one says to a marchioness, and I told him so afterwards. He said she was only a marchioness by marriage, which is absurd, because, of course, no one is born a marchioness. Anyway, he didn’t apologise, and she says she won’t stay under the same roof with him.”
“Under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Pallitson, promptly, “I think you might help Mr. Chermbacon to choose a nice early train back to town. There’s one that goes before lunch, and I expect his valet could get the packing act done in something under twenty minutes.”
Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh rose in silence, went to the door, and carefully closed it. Then she spoke slowly and impressively, with the air of a minister who is asking an economically-minded Parliament for an increased Navy vote.
“Bobbie Chermbacon is rich, quite rich, and one day he will be very much richer. His aunt can buy motorcars as we might buy theatre-tickets, and he will be her chief heir. I am getting on in years, though I may not look it.”
“You don’t,” Mrs. Pallitson assured her.
“Thank you; still, the fact remains. I’m getting on in years, and though I’ve a reasonable number of children of my own I’ve reached that time of life when a woman begins to feel a great longing for a son-in-law. Bobbie told Margaret last night that she had the eyes of a dreaming Madonna.”
“Extravagance in language seems to be his besetting characteristic,” said Mrs. Pallitson; “of course,” she continued hastily, “I don’t mean to say that dear Margaret hasn’t the eyes of a dreaming Madonna. I think the simile excellent.”
“There are many different types of Madonna,” said Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh.
“Exactly, but it’s rather outspoken language for such short acquaintance. As I say, he seems to be a rather outspoken young man.”
“Ah, but he said more than that; he said she reminded him of Gaby What’s-her-name, you know, the fascinating actress that the king of Spain admires so much.”
“Portugal,” murmured Mrs. Pallitson.
“And he didn’t confine himself to saying pretty things,” continued the mother eagerly; “actions speak stronger than words. He gave her some exquisite orchids to wear at dinner last night. They were from our orchid-house, but, still, he went to the trouble of picking them.”
“That shows a certain amount of devotion,” agreed Mrs. Pallitson.
“And he said he adored chestnut hair,” continued Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh; “Margaret’s hair is a very beautiful shade of chestnut.”
“He’s known her for a very short time,” said Mrs. Pallitson.
“It’s always been chestnut,” exclaimed Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that; I meant that the conquest was sudden, not the colour of the hair. These sudden infatuations are often the most genuine, I believe. A man sees someone for the first time, and knows at once that it is the one person he’s been looking for.”
“Well, you see the frightful position I’m in. Either the marchioness leaves in a fury, or I’ve got to turn Bobbie adrift just as he and Margaret are getting on so very well. It will nip the whole thing in the bud. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I ate nothing for breakfast. If I’m found floating in the carp-pond, you, at least, will know the reason why.”
“It’s certainly a dreadful situation,” said Mrs. Pallitson; “how would it be,” she added slowly and reflectively, “if I were to ask Margaret and Bobbie over to our place for the remainder of the marchioness’s stay? My husband has got a men’s party, but we could easily expand it. Out of all your guests you could subtract three without unduly diminishing your number. We could pretend that it was an old arrangement.”
“Do you mind if I kiss you?” asked Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh; “after this we must call each other by our Christian names. Mine is Elizabeth.”
“There I must object,” said Mrs. Pallitson, who had submitted to the kiss; “there is dignity and charm in the name Elizabeth, but my godparents christened me Celeste. When a woman weighs as much as I do—”
“I am sure you don’t,” exclaimed her hostess, in defiant disregard of logic.
“And inherits a very uncertain temper,” resumed Mrs. Pallitson, “there is a distinct flavour of incongruity in answering to the name Celeste.”
“You are doing a heavenly thing, and I think the name most appropriate; I shall always call you by it.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t an orchid-house,” said Mrs. Pallitson, “but there are some rather choice tuberoses in the hothouse.”
“Margaret’s favourite flower!” exclaimed Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh.
Mrs. Pallitson repressed a sigh. She was fond of tuberoses herself.
The day after the transplanting of Bobbie and Margaret, Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh was called to
