IX: AN AFTERNOON CALL
The acknowledged most beautiful woman in Fatland was none other than Arabella’s sister. She was fifty-three, but had managed to preserve her reputation by the discreet publication of her connection with illustrious men. She had one rival for the honour of the visit to the island, a lovely creature, a brilliant singer of popular ballads, who, during the crisis, had carried all before her and swept hundreds of young men into the army with her famous ditty: “Won’t I kiss you when you come back home?” However, her claims were disposed of by Arabella’s sister astutely pointing out that she was the aunt of the young man on the island, and therefore, if necessary, could be alone with him in perfect propriety.
In a motor launch she came out with the Lord High Chief of the Admiralty in full-dress uniform.
No sooner did she set eyes on Ultimus than she burst into tears and cried that he was the living image of Arabella. She kissed him and he drew back outraged and cried:
“Don’t do that again.”
Siebenhaar explained:
“Your nephew, madam, has never seen a woman before and is naturally alarmed. Your voice must sound strangely to his ears and your costume, if you will forgive me, leaves room for considerable doubt as to the normality of your anatomy. I think it would be as well if you made no attempt to reassure him, but allowed him to look at you and to grow accustomed to you while I engage your companion in conversation.”
With that he turned to the Lord High Chief and said:
“You can imagine that I am astounded to return after a long absence to find civilisation plunged once more in the barbarism of war. Surely no single one of the combatants has anything to gain by it.”
“The war, sir, was not of our seeking.”
“But you were prepared for it?”
“By God we were. I had seen to that.”
“Then you were prepared to join issue in any quarrel that might be sought?”
“We pledged our word to the Grossians and the Bilgians. Besides, sir, apart from all that, the Fatters are jealous of our Empire, and they have deliberately plotted for years to oust us commercially and politically. They want us wiped off the map. But when it comes to wiping——”
“Does it ever come to that?” asked Siebenhaar. “Is Athens dead while Plato lives? Is Rome forgotten while Virgil and Lucretius live in the minds of men? Was there ever more in Spain than lives in Cervantes?”
“I don’t know about that,” said the Lord High Chief; “but the Fatters want to dominate the world.”
“So did Alexander: so did Napoleon: but they wrought their own ruin.”
“This is too deep for me,” replied the politician. “I want something that the newspapers can get hold of. I want to know what you are up to, how you found the island, how it came to move again, and, if it isn’t a miracle of loyalty, what is it? Also I want to know what your intentions are, because if you are not here to support us we shall have to place you both under arrest,—er—that is, after you have moved the island out of harm’s way.”
Ultimus took Siebenhaar aside and said: “I want to go away. I have been looking at the woman, and I think she is horrible.”