EXILE.
"And how long," said the lady of the house from behind her rampart of breakfast things, "shall you want to be away?"
"Away?" I said. "Who said anything about being away?"
"Well," she said, "if you want to go to all those annual dinners and things you'll have to go to London, and if you go to London you'll have to be away from here."
"'Plato,'" I said, "'thou reasonest well.' Helen, pass me the butter."
"Why deny it, then?" said Helen's mother. "If you're going to be away you're going to be away, and there's an end of it."
"You're wrong there," I said. "There isn't an end of it. I can go away and come back on the same day. By the last train, you know. The last train is intended for that very purpose."
"What very purpose?"
"For coming back by the last train. That's what it's there for. Fathers of families who come back by it sleep in their own beds instead of sleeping in strange beds in clubs or hotels. Let us sing the praises of the last train. Rosie, push over the marmalade, and don't upset the spoon on the table-cloth."
It is not easy to converse with marmalade in one's mouth. I did not make the attempt, so there was a short pause in the argument. It was resumed by the lady of the house.
"You'll lose a lot of sleep, you know," she said. "The last train doesn't get you here till one o'clock in the morning."
"No matter," I said, "I can bear it. The thought of meeting my family at breakfast will sustain me."
"But you never do meet us. After a last train night you 're always half-an-hour late, and by that time the girls are gone."
"But you remain," I said. "To see you pouring out coffee is a liberal education in patience."
"But it's tepid coffee."
"I like tepid coffee as a change."
"And the eggs and bacon are cold."
"Pooh!" I said. "There is always the toast."
"And the toast is limp."
"If," I said, "you are so sure of these discomforts why not order me a fresh breakfast?"
"And that," she said, "will make work for the servants."
"Work," I said, "is for the workers. Besides the cook will like me to show an independent spirit."
"The nature of cooks," she said, "is not one of your strong points. No, I am sure you will do better to stay in London."
"But I can give up my dinners," I said.
"And do you think I could ask you to make such a sacrifice? Old friends whom you meet only once a year! Certainly you must go."
"But——"
"If you don't turn up they'll put it down to me, and that wouldn't be fair."
"I don't know," I said, "why you are so keen on my staying in London. There's something behind this—something more than meets the eye."
"Nonsense," she said, "it's only your comfort; but men never can be reasonable."
"Dad," said Helen to Rosie, "is going to have a holiday given him."
"Yes," said Rosie; "but he doesn't seem to want it very much."
"And it's not going to be a very long one," said Peggy, who generally supports my side of the battle.
"And we'll do his packing," said their mother; "won't we, girls?"
"Hurrah!" said Peggy.
"Peggy," I said, "I am sorry to cast a cold shower on your enthusiasm, but there are limits. You and your mother are great and undeniable packers, but your ways are not my ways."
"Anyhow," said Helen, "we should do it better than Swabey."
"No," I said, "you would do it worse. Swabey has his faults, but I know them. He always forgets white ties and handkerchiefs, but these I can buy, borrow or steal. You would forget white shirts and dress trousers, which mean nothing to you, but are all the world to me. Swabey packs my shaving-brush and my safety razor into my dress shoes, where I come upon them eventually. You would leave them out altogether. I am grateful to you all for your generous offer, but Swabey shall do my packing—that is if I go."
It is unnecessary to say that I went. The dinners were, as usual, a great success. We all became young again in our own eyes, and on the whole I was not sorry to have a bedroom in London. But why had it been forced on me against my will? The reason will appear in a letter from Peggy which I received on the second morning of my compulsory freedom;—
"Dearest Dad,—We are geting on alright. The maids are now in the libary and everything has been put somwere else. A lot of your papers got blown about, but we ran after them and got most of them. Our meels are in your den. Their going into the dining room direckly. The dust is dredfull and the dogs don't like it. It is a spring cleening with love from your loving
Peggy."
R. C. L.