II
Mrs. Leveret, on the eventful day, arrived early at Mrs. Ballinger's,her volume of Appropriate Allusions in her pocket.
It always flustered Mrs. Leveret to be late at the Lunch Club: she likedto collect her thoughts and gather a hint, as the others assembled, ofthe turn the conversation was likely to take. To-day, however, shefelt herself completely at a loss; and even the familiar contact ofAppropriate Allusions, which stuck into her as she sat down, failed togive her any reassurance. It was an admirable little volume, compiledto meet all the social emergencies; so that, whether on the occasionof Anniversaries, joyful or melancholy (as the classification ran),of Banquets, social or municipal, or of Baptisms, Church of Englandor sectarian, its student need never be at a loss for a pertinentreference. Mrs. Leveret, though she had for years devoutly conned itspages, valued it, however, rather for its moral support than for itspractical services; for though in the privacy of her own room shecommanded an army of quotations, these invariably deserted her at thecritical moment, and the only phrase she retained--_Canst thou draw outleviathan with a hook_?--was one she had never yet found occasion toapply.
To-day she felt that even the complete mastery of the volume wouldhardly have insured her self-possession; for she thought it probablethat, even if she _did_, in some miraculous way, remember an Allusion,it would be only to find that Osric Dane used a different volume (Mrs.Leveret was convinced that literary people always carried them), andwould consequently not recognise her quotations.
Mrs. Leveret's sense of being adrift was intensified by the appearanceof Mrs. Ballinger's drawing-room. To a careless eye its aspect wasunchanged; but those acquainted with Mrs. Ballinger's way ofarranging her books would instantly have detected the marks of recentperturbation. Mrs. Ballinger's province, as a member of the Lunch Club,was the Book of the Day. On that, whatever it was, from a novel toa treatise on experimental psychology, she was confidently,authoritatively "up." What became of last year's books, or last week'seven; what she did with the "subjects" she had previously professed withequal authority; no one had ever yet discovered. 'Her mind was an hotelwhere facts came and went like transient lodgers, without leaving theiraddress behind, and frequently without paying for their board. It wasMrs. Ballinger's boast that she was "abreast with the Thought of theDay," and her pride that this advanced position should be expressed bythe books on her table. These volumes, frequently renewed, and almostalways damp from the press, bore names generally unfamiliar to Mrs.Leveret, and giving her, as she furtively scanned them, a dishearteningglimpse of new fields of knowledge to be breathlessly traversed in Mrs.Ballinger's wake. But to-day a number of maturer-looking volumes wereadroitly mingled with the _primeurs_ of the press--Karl Marx jostledProfessor Bergson, and the "Confessions of St. Augustine" lay besidethe last work on "Mendelism"; so that even to Mrs. Leveret's flutteredperceptions it was clear that Mrs. Ballinger didn't in the least knowwhat Osric Dane was likely to talk about, and had taken measures to beprepared for anything. Mrs. Leveret felt like a passenger on an oceansteamer who is told that there is no immediate danger, but that she hadbetter put on her life-belt.
It was a relief to be roused from these forebodings by Miss Van Vluyck'sarrival.
"Well, my dear," the new-comer briskly asked her hostess, "what subjectsare we to discuss to-day?"
Mrs. Ballinger was furtively replacing a volume of Wordsworth by a copyof Verlaine. "I hardly know," she said, somewhat nervously. "Perhaps wehad better leave that to circumstances."
"Circumstances?" said Miss Van Vluyck drily. "That means, I suppose,that Laura Glyde will take the floor as usual, and we shall be delugedwith literature."
Philanthropy and statistics were Miss Van Vluyck's province, and sheresented any tendency to divert their guest's attention from thesetopics.
Mrs. Plinth at this moment appeared.
"Literature?" she protested in a tone of remonstrance. "But this isperfectly unexpected. I understood we were to talk of Osric Dane'snovel."
Mrs. Ballinger winced at the discrimination, but let it pass. "We canhardly make that our chief subject--at least not _too_ intentionally,"she suggested. "Of course we can let our talk _drift_ in that direction;but we ought to have some other topic as an introduction, and that iswhat I wanted to consult you about. The fact is, we know so littleof Osric Dane's tastes and interests that it is difficult to make anyspecial preparation."
"It may be difficult," said Mrs. Plinth with decision, "but it isnecessary. I know what that happy-go-lucky principle leads to. As I toldone of my nieces the other day, there are certain emergencies for whicha lady should always be prepared. It's in shocking taste to wear colourswhen one pays a visit of condolence, or a last year's dress when thereare reports that one's husband is on the wrong side of the market; andso it is with conversation. All I ask is that I should know beforehandwhat is to be talked about; then I feel sure of being able to say theproper thing."
"I quite agree with you," Mrs. Ballinger assented; "but--"
And at that instant, heralded by the fluttered parlourmaid, Osric Daneappeared upon the threshold.
Mrs. Leveret told her sister afterward that she had known at a glancewhat was coming. She saw that Osric Dane was not going to meet themhalf way. That distinguished personage had indeed entered with an air ofcompulsion not calculated to promote the easy exercise of hospitality.She looked as though she were about to be photographed for a new editionof her books.
The desire to propitiate a divinity is generally in inverse ratio to itsresponsiveness, and the sense of discouragement produced by Osric Dane'sentrance visibly increased the Lunch Club's eagerness to please her. Anylingering idea that she might consider herself under an obligation toher entertainers was at once dispelled by her manner: as Mrs. Leveretsaid afterward to her sister, she had a way of looking at you that madeyou feel as if there was something wrong with your hat. This evidenceof greatness produced such an immediate impression on the ladies that ashudder of awe ran through them when Mrs. Roby, as their hostess ledthe great personage into the dining-room, turned back to whisper to theothers: "What a brute she is!"
The hour about the table did not tend to revise this verdict. It waspassed by Osric Dane in the silent deglutition of Mrs. Bollinger's menu,and by the members of the club in the emission of tentative platitudeswhich their guest seemed to swallow as perfunctorily as the successivecourses of the luncheon.
Mrs. Ballinger's reluctance to fix a topic had thrown the club into amental disarray which increased with the return to the drawing-room,where the actual business of discussion was to open. Each lady waitedfor the other to speak; and there was a general shock of disappointmentwhen their hostess opened the conversation by the painfully commonplaceenquiry. "Is this your first visit to Hillbridge?"
Even Mrs. Leveret was conscious that this was a bad beginning; and avague impulse of deprecation made Miss Glyde interject: "It is a verysmall place indeed."
Mrs. Plinth bristled. "We have a great many representative people," shesaid, in the tone of one who speaks for her order.
Osric Dane turned to her. "What do they represent?" she asked.
Mrs. Plinth's constitutional dislike to being questioned was intensifiedby her sense of unpreparedness; and her reproachful glance passed thequestion on to Mrs. Ballinger.
"Why," said that lady, glancing in turn at the other members, "as acommunity I hope it is not too much to say that we stand for culture."
"For art--" Miss Glyde interjected.
"For art and literature," Mrs. Ballinger emended.
"And for sociology, I trust," snapped Miss Van Vluyck.
"We have a standard," said Mrs. Plinth, feeling herself suddenly secureon the vast expanse of a generalisation; and Mrs. Leveret, thinkingthere must be room for more than one on so broad a statement, tookcourage to murmur: "Oh, certainly; we have a standard."
"The object of our little club," Mrs. Ballinger continued, "is toconcentrate the highest tendencies of Hillbridge--to centralise andfocus i
ts intellectual effort."
This was felt to be so happy that the ladies drew an almost audiblebreath of relief.
"We aspire," the President went on, "to be in touch with whatever ishighest in art, literature and ethics."
Osric Dane again turned to her. "What ethics?" she asked.
A tremor of apprehension encircled the room. None of the ladies requiredany preparation to pronounce on a question of morals; but when theywere called ethics it was different. The club, when fresh fromthe "Encyclopaedia Britannica," the "Reader's Handbook" or Smith's"Classical Dictionary," could deal confidently with any subject; butwhen
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