CHAPTER IV
"We'll have to ask the Rivingtons," said Andrew.
"And not the Donaldsons?" inquired his wife.
Andrew reflected. This was to be a very special dinner party; quite the smartest function they had given yet. His sister would want to be there, especially when she heard the Ramornies were coming over for it. On the other hand, they knew a great many more distinguished people than Hector and his wife had yet become, and of these they could only invite a small selection to the dinner party. It was a case in which principle clashed with principle.
"We'll have Gertrude and Hector too," he announced.
He had just remembered that Walkingshaw & Gilliflower were briefing Hector in a forthcoming case, and that there had been some discussion in the office as to the precisely proper fee to which, at that moment in his upward career, he was entitled. He would set this dinner against the odd two guineas in dispute. That, anyhow was an equitable principle, if ever there was one.
"And of course Lord and Lady Kilconquar?"
"Of course," said Andrew.
"And Sir William Sinclair?"
Andrew nodded.
"Must we ask the Mackintoshes?"
Andrew frowned.
"They'll do for our next dinner."
That was not going to be quite so smart a function.
"That's twenty-two," said Mrs. Walkingshaw.
"Just the right number," replied her husband. "It was what the Kilconquars had when we dined there."
Everything that Andrew had done was right, and his circumstances reflected his rectitude. No dodging about devious lanes in the fog for him and Mrs. Walkingshaw; no slow progress in crowded omnibuses; no Bohemian teas in paint-smelling studios. The streets through which they passed were wide and stately, even if a trifle windy; a motor car whirled them to their destination (which was always the right place to be seen at); their meals were consumed in sedate Georgian apartments, and in every detail would have satisfied a peer. They moved through life on oiled and noiseless wheels, wrapped in comfort and attended by respect. Let no carping critic say that the good things in this life are not distributed according to the most laudable principle. The guinea-fowl lays where she sees a nest-egg, and the larger it is the more does she deposit. And the prosperous nest-owner is he who stays always beside his treasure, gently coaxing the fowl, and vigilantly guarding against the least suspicion of disturbance, theft, or injury. Let anything happen that may in the world outside; here is his post of duty, and he sticks to it.
It is true that for a short while an uncomfortable shadow seemed to cloud the serenity of Andrew's soul. This happened about the second anniversary of his late father's removal from his native city to that retreat where he ended his days, and was believed by his aunt to result from the painful memories evoked by his recollection of the date. It is certain that his serenity returned with each succeeding week, till by this time, when several months had passed, he had thrown off his anxiety altogether. He remained perhaps a little more constantly vigilant than before—even, for instance, when coming home from church; but it seemed now he had rather the alertness of the coastguardsman than the tension of the sailor when the decks are cleared for action.
It is impossible to imagine a more ideal scene of domestic felicity than that presented by Andrew and his spouse this evening. The room had been redecorated and partially refurnished by its new mistress. As she never expressed any opinion without quoting a competent authority, her husband at once took into respectful consideration her suggestion that fashionable people no longer dangled a cut-glass chandelier from their ceiling, and always had colored tiles in their hearths. When she further suggested that it should be her privilege to effect these and other improvements out of the dowry she was bringing him, he passed from consideration to consent. So that the fortunate couple were now mounted in a setting worthy of their price.
Sitting at a Sheraton table in a semi-evening toilet that had cost her forty guineas, writing the names of some twenty of their most eminent fellow citizens in the spaces on the invitation cards, Catherine impressed her husband favorably—entirely favorably. A very satisfactory mate indeed he considered her. One could not imagine her pale eyes winking, or a saucy smile on her thin lips, or anything but the plainest common sense coming out of them. Yes, she was very satisfactory. It is true that he had once, in a burst of confidence, confided to one of his friends that she was "Awful skinny," but it is wonderful how far forty guineas will go towards modifying that defect. In short, she was—well, satisfactory. When one has secured the right adjective, why change it?
Andrew's complacency was completed by the presence of his aunt. He still kept her with him as a kind of perpetual testimonial to his solid worth. Her mere presence proved he was a kind and hospitable nephew; and on the least provocation she would enlarge upon his virtues in a way that was most pleasant for a visitor to hear. At other times she kept discreetly in the background, just as she had all her life. There was also this further advantage: that her legacy was much more satisfactorily employed in defraying (at her own desire, of course) some portion of her nephew's increasing expenses, than going into the pocket of a worthless landlord or hydropathic company.
Andrew was glancing through an evening paper, and his aunt conscientiously studying that morning's Scotsman. Suddenly she exclaimed:
"The Cromarty Highlanders have come to Glasgow!"
Andrew stared at her.
"Not the second battalion?"
"Yes, Frank's regiment."
"But they weren't to leave India for three years yet."
Mrs. Andrew looked over her shoulder.
"Oh, I saw they'd been ordered home some time ago."
"You didn't mention it to me," said Andrew.
She looked a little surprised, for she knew that Frank's was not a name mentioned in that house.
"I didn't think you'd be interested."
"I am not in the least," replied her husband.
His eye reproved her coldly. She exchanged with his aunt one of those sympathetic glances that pass between indulgent but comprehending women. "He is a noble creature, but at moments a little inconsistent," they mutually confided. And then she wrote the names of Lord and Lady Kilconquar on their card.
And that is how Jean might have been spending her evenings too, had she had proper principles.