GOING OUT
Alone, I can get through an At Home with a certain amount of credit. No doubt, I make mistakes; no doubt people look at me and say: "Who is that person sitting all by himself in the corner, and keeping on eating muffins?" but at any rate I can make the function a tolerable one. When, however, I flutter in under the wing of my sister-in-law, with my hair nicely brushed and my tie pulled straight (she having held a review on the doorstep), then it is another matter altogether. It is then that I feel how necessary it is to say the right thing. Beatrice has pretty ears, but they are long-distance ones. We drifted apart immediately but I was sure she was listening.
I found myself introduced to a tall, athletic-looking girl.
"There's a great crowd, isn't there?" I said. "Can I find you some tea, or anything?"
"Oh, please," she said, with a smile.
I noted the smile, and thanked heaven that I had read my Lady Grove. In the ordinary way I say to strangers: "Will you take a dish of tea with me?" but just in time Lady Grove had warned me that this was wrong. Left to myself I hit upon the word "find." "Can I find you some tea?" It gives the idea of pursuit. And the "or anything" rounds it off well—as much as to say, "If I should happen to come back with a sardine on toast, don't blame me."
I found some tea after a long struggle, but by that time I had lost the athlete. It was a pity, because I was going to have talked to her about Surrey's victory over Kent at ladies' hockey. I don't know anything about hockey, but it's obvious that Surrey must play Kent some time, and it would be an even chance that Surrey would win. The good conversationalist takes risks cheerfully.
Well, the international having disappeared, I was going to drink the tea myself, when I caught Beatrice's eye on me.
"Will you have some tea?" I said to my neighbour.
"I think a little coffee, thank you."
"Certainly."
I pressed the tea into the hand of a retired colonel, and hurried off. Now that shows you. Alone, I should have quoted The Lancet on coffee microbes, and insisted on her having my cup of tea. This would have led us easily and naturally to a conversation on drinks and modern journalism. We should have become friends. I should have had an invitation from her mother to lunch; and I should have smoked two of her father's best cigars.
As it was I said "Certainly," fetched the coffee, coughed, and observed that there was rather a crowd. She said "Yes" and turned away to somebody else. Two good cigars thrown away because of Beatrice!
I was slowly recovering from my loss when Beatrice herself came up to say that she wanted to introduce me to a very nice girl called Jane something. In the ordinary way, very nice girls aren't called Jane anything, so here evidently was something exceptional. I buttoned my coat boldly, and followed her, unbuttoning it nervously on the way.
"Here he is," she said, and left us.
This is what they call introducing.
"How do you do?" I started.
"I've heard such a lot about you," began Jane brightly.
I never know what to say to that. There must be a right answer, if only Lady Grove would tell us. As it was I said "Thank you."
That felt wrong, so I added, "So have I."
"About you," I explained hurriedly. To myself I said, "You know you're not really carrying this off well. It's idle to pretend that you are."
"What have you heard, I wonder?" beamed Jane.
Only that her name was Jane something.
"Ah!" I said.
"Oh, you must tell me!"
"I mean, I've heard friends of yours mention your name."
"Oh," she said disappointedly, "I thought you meant——"
"But, of course, everybody has heard of Jane—h'r'r'm—of Miss—er, um—I think my sister-in-law—yes, thank you, we have a train to catch, oh, must you really go?—er—good-bye."
I staggered away in pursuit of Beatrice. She dragged me up to an American girl, as I judged her.
"Here he is," she said, and passed on.
"So glad to make your acquaintance," said the American.
There is no answer to that, I know. I ignored it altogether, and said:
"Have you seen the Budget?"
"No. What's that?"
"Oh, you must see that."
"I will. We'll go to-morrow. Where is it?"
I don't think Americans see as much of Addison Road as they ought to. I gave the usual guide-book directions for getting there, and was just beginning to be interested when I saw Beatrice's inquiring look. "Are you behaving nicely?" it said. I passed on hastily.
I was very lonely for a while after that. Three times I got a plate of cucumber sandwiches safely into a corner, and three times a sisterly eye dragged us out again. After the third failure I saw that it was hopeless, so I wandered about and tried to decide which was the ugliest hat in the room. A man is the only possible judge in a competition of that sort. A woman lets herself be prejudiced by such facts as that it is so fashionable, or that she saw one just like it in Bond Street, my dear, at five guineas.
I had narrowed the competitors down to five, two of which were, on form, certain for a place, when I turned round and saw, in a corner behind me—
(I don't know if you will believe me)—
A man with a plate of cucumber sandwiches!
I rubbed my eyes in amazement. A man ... at an At Home ... sitting down and eating cucum—— Why, where was his sister-in-law?
There was only one thing to be done. The favourite in my competition (green, pink hoops) was disengaged for the moment. I went up to the man, took him by the arm, and dragged him away from his corner. He still held the plate in his hand, and I helped myself to a sandwich. "Must introduce you," I whispered in his ear. "Famous prize-winner." We pushed our way up to the lady.
"Here he is," I said.
And I looked round triumphantly for Beatrice.