IX
ON SOCIAL ACCOUNTS
"It's rather strange, I think," observed Mrs. Idiot one evening, as sheand the Idiot sat down to dine, "that the Dawkinses haven't been herefor three or four months."
"I've noticed it myself," said the Idiot. "We used to see 'em every dayabout. What's up? You and Polly Dawkins had a fight?"
"Not that I know of," said Mrs. Idiot. "The last time we met she wasvery cordial, and asked most affectionately after you and the children.I presumed that possibly you and Dick had had some kind of a fallingout."
"Not a bit of it. Dick and I couldn't quarrel any more than you andPolly could. Perhaps as we grow older our ideals differ. Polly's ratheranthropological in her talks, isn't she?"
"A trifle," said Mrs. Idiot. "And musical and literary and scientific."
"While you?" queried the Idiot.
"'WELL, I'M FOND OF GOLF'"]
"Well, I'm fond of golf and--ah--well--"
"Golf again," laughed the Idiot. "I guess that's it, Bess. When a womanwants to talk about the origin of the species and has to hear about asplendid putt, and her observations upon the sonata are invariablyinterrupted by animadversions upon the morals of caddies, and hercriticisms of Browning end in a discussion of the St. Andrew's Rules,she's apt to shy off into a more congenial atmosphere, don't you think?"
"I am sure," retorted Mrs. Idiot, "that while I admit I am moreinterested in golf than in anything else outside of you and thechildren, I can and do talk sometimes of other things than caddies, andbeautiful drives, and stymies. You are very much mistaken if you thinkotherwise."
"That is very true, my dear," said the Idiot. "And nobody knows itbetter than I do. I've heard you talk charmingly about lots of thingsbesides stymies, and foozles, and putts, and drives, but you don't knowanything about the men of the Stone Age, and you couldn't tell thedifference between a sonata and a fugue any more than I. Furthermore,you have no patience with Browning, so that when Polly Dawkins asks ifyou like _Sordello_, you are more likely than not to say that you neverate any, but on the whole for small fish prefer whitebait."
Mrs. Idiot laughed.
"No, indeed," she replied. "I'd fall back on golf if Polly mentioned_Sordello_ to me. You may remember that you sent it to me when we wereengaged, and I loved you so much--then--that I read it. If I hadn'tloved you I couldn't have done it."
"Well," smiled the Idiot, "what did you think of it?"
"I think Browning had a good lie, but he foozled," said Mrs. Idiot, withher eyes atwinkle, and the Idiot subsided for at least ten seconds.
"I wish you'd say that to Polly some time," he observed. "It's so verytrue, and put with an originality which cannot but appeal to the mosthardened of literary women."
"I will if I ever get the chance," said Mrs. Idiot.
"Suppose we make the chance?" suggested the Idiot. "Let's go down thereand call to-night. I'll work the conversation up so that you can getthat off as an impromptu."
"AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL TEA"]
"No," said Mrs. Idiot. "I don't think we'd better. In the first place,Mrs. Whalker told me yesterday that Polly is to read a paper on Balzacbefore the S. F. M. E. to-morrow evening, and on Friday morning she isto discuss the 'Influence of Mozart on De Koven' before the MusicalMothers' Meeting, and on Saturday afternoon she is going to have ananthropological tea at her house, which she is to open with somespeculations as to whether in the Glacial Period dudes were addicted tothe use of cigarettes."
"Great Scott!" said the Idiot. "This is her busy week."
"Tolerably so," said Mrs. Idiot. "She has probably reserved this eveningto read up on Balzac for to-morrow's essay, so I think, my dear, we'dbetter not go."
"Right as usual," said the Idiot. And then he added, "Poor Dawkins, whois taking care of him now?"
"I think," said Mrs. Idiot, "that possibly Mrs. Dawkins has sublet thecontract for looking after her husband and children to the UnitedStates Housekeeping Company Limited."
The Idiot gazed blankly at his wife, and awaited an explanation.
"'THE BABY IS ROCKED TO SLEEP EVERY NIGHT'"]
"An organization, my dear," she continued, "formed by a number ofwell-meaning and remorseful widows who, having lost their husbands,begin to appreciate their virtues, and who, finding themselvessympathetic when it is too late, are devoting themselves to the husbandsof others who are neglected. A subscription of five hundred dollars willsecure the supervision of all the domestic arrangements of ahome--marketing, engagement and discharge of domestics, house-cleaning,buttons sewed on, darning done, care of flowers, wifely dutiesgenerally; for one thousand dollars they will bring up the children, andsee that the baby is rocked to sleep every night, and suitablyinterested in elevating narratives and poems like Joseph's coat of manycolors, and Tom, Tom the Piper's Son. This enables an advanced womanlike Mrs. Dawkins to devote her mornings to the encyclopedias, herafternoons to the public libraries, and her evenings to the functionswhereat she may read the papers which her devotion to the encyclopediasand the libraries has brought forth."
"Excuse me, my dear Bess," said the Idiot, rising. "I wish to telephoneDr. Simmons."
"For what--for whom?" demanded the lady.
"You, of course," returned the Idiot. "You are developing alarmingsymptoms. You give every indication of a bad attack of professionalhumor. Your 'International Widows Company for the Protection andAmelioration of Neglected Husbandry' proves that!"
Mrs. Idiot laughed again.
"POOR DICK DAWKINS ISN'T TAKEN CARE OF AT ALL'"]
"Oh, I didn't say that there really is such an institution!" she cried."I said that I supposed there was, for if there isn't, poor Dick Dawkinsisn't taken care of at all."
"Well, I'm sorry for it all, anyhow," said the Idiot, seriously."They're both of 'em good friends of ours, and I hate to see twofamilies that have been so close drawing apart."
Just then Mollie and Tommy came in.
"Mamma, Willie Dawkins says he can't come to our party because his mawon't let him," said Mollie. "She says we don't never go down there."
"That's it," said the Idiot. "Mrs. Dawkins has got so many irons in thefire she's begun to keep social books. I'll bet you she's got a ledgerand a full set of double-entry account-books charging up calls payableand calls receivable."
"I don't see how she can get along unless she has," replied Mrs. Idiot."With all her clubs and church societies and varied social obligationsshe needs an expert accountant to keep track of them all."
"I suppose a promise to read a paper on Balzac," put in the Idiot, "issomething like a three-months' note. It's easy to promise to pay, withthree months in which to prepare, but you've got to keep track of thedate and meet the obligation when it falls due. As for me, I'd rathermeet the note."
"That is about it," said Mrs. Idiot. "If a woman goes into societyproperly she's got to make a business of it. For instance, there areabout ten dances given at the club here every year. Polly is patronessfor every one of 'em. There are twenty-five teas during the spring andsummer months. Polly assists at half of them, and gives a fifth ofthem. She's president of the King's Daughters, corresponding secretaryof the Dorcas, treasurer of the Red Cross Society, and goodness knowswhat all!"
"I can quite understand why she needs to keep accounts--socialaccounts," said the Idiot. "But it's rather queer, don't you think, thatshe has the children on her books? The idea of saying that Jimmie andGladys can't come to Mollie's party because Mollie hasn't been downthere--why, it's nonsense!"
"No," said Mrs. Idiot, "it is merely logical. Whatever Polly Dawkinsdoes she tries to do thoroughly. I've no doubt she'll do Balzac upcompletely. If she keeps social books showing call balances in her favoror against herself she might as well go the whole thing and write thechildren in--only she's made a mistake, as far as we are concerned,unless she means to write us off without squaring up."
"You talk like a financier," said the Idiot, admiringly. "What do youknow about writing off?"
"I used to hel
p my father with his accounts, occasionally," said Mrs.Idiot. "Polly Dawkins's books ought to show a balance of one call inour favor. That's really the reason I'm not willing to call thereto-night. She's so queer about it all, and, as a matter of fact, sheowes me a call. I'm not going to overwhelm her with an addedobligation."
"Ho!" smiled the Idiot. "You keep books yourself, eh?"
"I keep score," said Mrs. Idiot. "I learned that playing golf."
"It's a bad thing to keep score in golf," said the Idiot.
"So they say, but I find it amusing," she replied.
"And how many calls does Mrs. Wilkins owe you?" demanded the Idiot.
"I don't know," returned the wife. "And I don't care. When I want to seeMrs. Wilkins I call on her whether she owes me a call or not, but withPolly Dawkins it's different. She began the book-keeping, and as long asshe likes it I must try to live up to her ideas. If social intercoursedevelops into a business, business requirements must be observed."
"It's a good idea in a way," said the Idiot, reflectively. "But if youmake a business of society, why don't you carry it to a logicalconclusion? Balance your books, if you mean business, every month, andsend your debtors a statement of their account."
"Well, I will if you wish me to," said Mrs. Idiot. "Suppose they don'tpay?"
"Dun 'em," said the Idiot. And then the matter dropped.
On the fifth of the following month Mr. and Mrs. Idiot were seatedcomfortably in their library. The children had gone to bed, and theywere enjoying the bliss of a quiet evening at home, when the door-bellrang, and in a moment or two the maid ushered in Mr. and Mrs. RichardDawkins, preceded, of course, by their cards. The young householderswere delighted, and Polly Dawkins was never more charming. She lookedwell, and she talked well, and there was not a symptom of any diminutionof the old-time friendship perceptible--only she did appear to be tiredand care-worn.
The evening wore away pleasantly. The chat reverted to old times, and bydegrees Mrs. Dawkins seemed to grow less tired.
About ten o'clock the Idiot invited his neighbor to adjourn to thesmoking-room, where they each lit a cigar and indulged in acompanionable glass.
"Idiot," said Dawkins, when his wife called out to him that it was timeto go home, "your wife is a wonder. I've been trying for three months tomake Polly come up here and she wouldn't. Keeps books, you know--now.Has to--so much to do. Thought you owed us a call, but received yourbill Wednesday--looked it up--questioned servants--found you wereright."
"Bill," cried the Idiot. "What bill?"
"Why, the one Mrs. Idiot sent--this," said Dawkins, taking a piece ofpaper out of his pocket. "Confoundedly good joke."
The Idiot took up the piece of paper. It was type-written--on Tommy'smachine--and read as follows:
November 1 1898 MR. AND MRS. RICHARD DAWKINS _To Mr. and Mrs. Idiot Dr._
September 20 Evening call 1 Account overdue. Please remit.
"Great Scott!" laughed the Idiot.
"My dear," said the Idiot after the Dawkinses had gone, "that bill ofyours was a great idea."
"It wasn't my idea at all--it was yours," said Mrs. Idiot, laughing."You said we ought to be business-like to the last and send out astatement on the first of the month. I sent it. And they paid up."
"Richard," said Mrs. Dawkins, as they drove home, "did you get areceipt?"
The Idiot at Home Page 10
