Part 9 (1/2)

Outside again. BOSCH shows me a house.

”Lokeer. In dot house leef an oldt lady all mit herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland, ya.s.sir.”

Really, I think BOSCH is going to be interesting--at last. There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous nature.

”Well, Bosch, go on--what about the old lady?” I ask eagerly, as MERTON.

”Wol, Sir,” says BOSCH, ”she nefer go noveres.”...

That's _all_! ”A devilish interesting story, _Sumph_, indeed!” to quote Mr. Wagg.

But, as BOSCH frequently reminds me, ”It vas pedder, you see, as a schendlemans like you go apout mit me; I dell you tings dot vas not in de guide-books.” Which I am not in a position to deny.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

FEELING THEIR WAY.

(A STUDY IN THE ART OF GENTEEL CONVERSATION.)

_The Drawing-room of a Margate Hotel. TIME--Evening. MRS. ARDLEIGH (of Balham), and MRS. ALLb.u.t.t (of Brondesbury), are discovered in the midst of a conversation, in which each is anxious both to impress the other, and ascertain how far she is a person to be cultivated. At present, they have not got beyond the discovery of a common bond in Cookery._

MRS. ALLb.u.t.t. You have the yolks of two eggs, I must tell you; squeeze the juice of half a lemon into it, and, when you boil the b.u.t.ter in the pan, make a paste of it with _dry_ flour.

MRS. ARDLEIGH. It sounds delicious--but you never can trust a Cook to carry out instructions exactly.

MRS. ALL. I never _do_. Whenever I want to have anything specially nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself. He appreciates it. Now _some_ men, if you cook for them, never notice whether it's you or the Cook. My husband _does_.

MRS. ARD. I wonder how you find time to do it. I'm sure _I_ should never----

MRS. ALL. Oh, it takes time, of course--but what does that matter when you've nothing to do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne pepper?--because that's a _great_ improvement!

MRS. ARD. I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than anything--and that's eggs.

MRS. ALL. (_with elegant languor_). I hardly ever eat an egg. Oysters, now, I'm _very_ fond of--_fried_, that is.

MRS. ARD. They're very nice done in the real sh.e.l.ls. Or on scollops. We have silver--or rather--(_with a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour_), silver-plated ones.

MRS. ALL. How funny--so have we! (_Both women feel an increase of liking for one another._) I like them cooked in milk, too.

[_The first barrier being satisfactorily pa.s.sed, they proceed, as usual, to the subject of ailments._

MRS. ARD. My doctor _does_ do me good, I must say--he never lets me get ill. He just sees your liver's all right, and then he feeds you up.

MRS. ALL. That's like _my_ doctor; he always tells me, if he didn't keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no time.

That's how I come to be here. I always run down at the end of every Season.

MRS. ARD. (_feeling that MRS. ALLb.u.t.t can't be ”anybody very particular”

after all_). What--to Margate? Fancy! Don't you find you get tired of it? _I_ should.