ON APPROVAL.
John looked up from his paper.
"Ah!" he sighed loudly, "how the world progresses."
There was silence. John sighed again.
"How the world progresses," he said a shade louder.
Cecilia and I continued reading.
"Can't anyone ask a question?" asked John peevishly.
"Where do the flies go in the winter-time?" murmured Cecilia without looking up.
I was weak enough to laugh. For some reason it annoyed John.
"Go on, go on, laugh!" he spluttered; "you're a good pair, you and your sister. Say something else funny, Cecilia, and make little brother laugh. What a crowd to have married into! Shrieks of laughter at every feeble joke, but as for intelligent conversation——"
"Well, we're reading," said Cecilia; "we don't want intelligent conversation."
"There's no need to tell me that. I know it only too well. I haven't been married to you for all these years without seeing that."
"'All these years,'" repeated Cecilia, aghast. "The vindictive brute."
"And," continued John bitterly, "I say again what I said just now: How the world progresses."
"Well, there's no need to keep on saying it, dear old cauliflower," I said; "we know it progresses. What are we expected to say?"
"I know," said Cecilia brightly. "Why?"
John pulled himself up.
"Because," he said, "they are proposing in the paper here to start a system of temporary marriages which can be dissolved if either party is dissatisfied after a fair trial. I only wish somebody had thought of it—how many?—eight years ago."
Cecilia's jaw dropped. I chuckled.
"You certainly bought that one all right, Cecilia old dear," I said. "Can't you manage a witty retort? Try, sister, for the honour of the family."
Cecilia pulled herself together.
"Retort?" she said in surprise. "Why on earth a retort, my dear Alan? When my husband makes his first really sensible remark for years I don't retort, I applaud. If only I had known the sort of man he is before I tied myself to him for life! What an actor he would have made! Why, before we married——"
"'Nothing was too good for you,'" I encouraged. "Go on, Cecilia."
"Don't interrupt, Alan—nothing was too good for me. Afterwards——"
"Last year's blouses and a yearly trip to the Zoo. Shame!" I said.
"And what about me?" said John. "Haven't I been deceived? Didn't you all conspire to make me think she was sweet and good? I remember somebody telling me I was a lucky man. I realise now you were all only too glad to get rid of her."
"Alan! How can you let him?" said Cecilia with a small scream of rage.
"Come, come," I said, "this family wrangling has gone far enough. You are married and you can't get out of it. Make the best of it, my children, and be friends."
"Yes," said John sadly, "it is too late now. I must try to bear up; but it is hard. If only this scheme had been started a few years earlier. If only I could have taken her on approval."
He paused a moment and smiled softly.
"Imagine the scene," he resumed. "'Cecilia,' I should say, 'I have given you every chance, but I am afraid you don't suit. For eight long years I have suffered from your rotten cooking, your ... extravagance ... and so on ... et cætera ... and I regret that I must give you a month's notice, to take effect as from four o'clock this afternoon. You have good qualities. You are honest and temperate and, to some extent, not bad looking—in the evening, anyway. Your idea of keeping household accounts is atrocious, but, on the other hand, you look rather nice in a hammock on a hot summer day. But that is all I can say for you. You have not given me the wifely devotion I expected. Only last week, when I came home feeling miserable, you sat at the piano playing extracts from some beastly revue, when a true wife would have been singing "Parted" or even "Roses of Picardy." Again, you invariably put our child in front of me in all things, such as the last piece of cake or having an egg for tea. I am not jealous of the boy, mind you, but I hate favouritism, and I won't play second fiddle to Christopher or anyone else.
"'In fact, my dear Cecilia (I use the phrase in its formal sense only), not being satisfied that you do all that was promised in the advertisement, I have decided to return you without further liability and ask for a refund of the cost of carriage. That will be all, thank you. You may go.'"
There was a few moments' ominous quiet, and then Cecilia went over the top with a roar of artillery and the rattle of machine guns. John put up a defensive barrage. Cecilia raked him with bombs and Lewis guns. He replied with heavy stuff. The air grew thicker and thicker.
"Shush!" I shouted through the din of battle. "Man and wife to wrangle like this! Think of your good name. Think of the servants. Think of the child."
Cecilia caught the last phrase and the noise subsided.
"Yes," she said, breathless but calm, "there's the hitch in your plans, Master John—the child. If I go I take Christopher with me."
"That you don't. Christopher belongs to me. He is part of my estate—in law. You can't take him."
"Can't I?" said Cecilia. "Am I his mother or am I not?"
"Who pays his school-fees?" said John. "What's his name? Whose house does he live in?"
Cecilia was gathering herself for another offensive when the door opened and Christopher came in.
We looked at him and he paused in embarrassment.
"What are you all looking at me for?" he asked, smiling uneasily; "I haven't done anything."
"He belongs to me," said Cecilia suddenly.
"He belongs to me," said John with decision.
Christopher knows his parents fairly well. "Whatever are you doing?" he asked with a chuckle.
"Come here," said John.
Christopher advanced and stood between his mother and his father.
"I don't know what I'm inspected to do," he said.
"Christopher," said John, "to whom do you belong—to your mother or to me? Think well, my child."
Christopher wrinkled his nose obediently and thought for a moment.
"Why," he said, his face clearing, "we all b'long to each other."
"'The Heart of a Child,'" I said; "the beautifullest love-story ever told. Featuring Little Randolph, the Boy Wonder."
They took no notice. They were all three busy rehearsing the final reconciliation scene.
The Wife. "Must we always 'ave champagne, 'Arry? It don't reely suit me."
The Profiteer. "Of course we must. They might think we couldn't afford it."