MUCH THE BETTER HALF.
"Then you mean that neither of you is coming to the concert?" said Margery.
"Speaking for myself," said John, "the answer is in the affirmative—or negative, just as you prefer. Any way, I'm not coming. Your worthy brother must decide for himself."
"Our worthy brother-in-law has spoken for me, Margery," I said; "I also regret my inability to assist at the revels."
"Then all I can say is I think you're a couple of pigs."
"Margery, Margery," said John, "really your language——I shall have to write to the papers about you."
"That's the idea," I joined in. "'The Modern Flapper,' by 'Broad-minded but Shocked.' You'd better look out, Margery, or you'll never marry. The papers are full of letters about people like you. There's a beauty this morning. Half a minute; I'll read it to you."
"Don't trouble yourself, please," said Margery, curling her lip up somewhere over her right eyebrow.
"No trouble at all, it's a pleasure," I said, turning over the pages. "Ah! here we are. This is signed 'Disgusted Ex-Soldier.' Listen:—
"'Sir,—Speaking as one but recently returned to so-called civilisation after the horrors of two years of war ["Conscript!" said John], may I venture to give you my opinion of the Modern Girl ...'"
"That's you he means," said John.
"Pah!" said Margery.
"And bah! to you twice," said John.
"Shush, both of you," I said; "listen to 'Disgusted Ex-Soldier':—
"'What was it kept up our hearts and spirits during the terrible days and nights in the trenches?'"
"The Rum Ration," cried John. "Hear, hear. Loud cries of 'Down with Pussyfoot!'"
"Nothing of the sort," I said. "'It was the thought of the sweet simple girls at home in England that nerved us during those frightful days.'"
"Was it? So it was. Of course," said John feebly, "I forgot."
"'It was for them that we suffered as we did.'"
"Did we? I mean was it? So it was," said John, growing enthusiastic. "Good old 'Ex-Soldier!' What's he say next?"
"'And when we return at last from the toil and stress of war [Grunts of appreciation from John], what do we find?'"
"Pork and beans," said John.
I looked at him severely.
"John," I said, "this is no matter for idle jesting. Listen what the poor fellow goes on to say, "'What do we find?'"
"Boiled be——I don't know, Alan," he finished hurriedly as I looked at him again. "I—I don't think I found anything."
"'We find,'" I continued, treating him with contumely, "'a laughing, giggling, smoking, jazzing, frivolous and slangy crowd of ill-mannered flappers, devoid of all interest in the higher aspects of life and thinking only of the latest fox-trot. What hope have I of finding among such as these the woman who will look after my home and bring up my children?'"
"Hooray!" said John, "that's the stuff to gie 'em."
Margery squeaked with indignation.
"Look after his home, indeed," she choked. "The impertinence of it! The conceited ape! Who does he think he is?"
"Margery," said John in his special deep tone, "you are too young to understand these things."
"Understand them! I should just think I am. I didn't believe such conceit existed in a man nowadays."
"It isn't conceit, my dear Margery; it is the Right Attitude to Adopt," said John, speaking in capitals. "Personally, I admire the man. Begin as you mean to go on, I say."
Margery snorted.
"I should just like to see you beginning then," she said.
"That is precisely what I am going to do," said John, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs. "I see now that I have always been too easy-going with Cecilia. From now onwards, however, there will be a difference. I shall be master in my own house. In short—er—nous avons changé tout cela! Am I right, Alan?"
"Nothing to speak of," I said; "but the idea's good. Carry on, John."
"Ah, well, the idea's the thing, as Shakspeare said. Anyway, the point is that 'Ex-Soldier' has awakened my sense of manhood. In future I shall, as I say, take my rightful position."
"Indeed," said Margery; "and how are you going to set about it?"
"Well, here's a case to begin with," said John. "I have said that I won't be dragged round to your beastly village revels to-morrow, and I stick to it. What Alan does is his own concern. For my part I shall spend to-morrow evening having a quiet million up on the table."
"I'm with you," I said; "we will bash the globules together."
Margery decided to change her tone.
"Don't be beastly, John," she said; "you know Cecilia expects you to come with us."
John laughed softly.
"Precisely, my dear Margery," he said, "and that's a very good reason why I shouldn't go. Cecilia always does expect me to do everything she wants. And I'm so good-natured I have always given way. But never again, Margery; I shall not come to the concert. I shall say to Cecilia, 'Cecilia, I am not coming to your concert,' and that will end the matter."
"Then I think you're a selfish beast," said Margery.
Just then Cecilia came into the room.
"And who's a selfish beast?" she asked.
"Not me, Cecilia," I said. Cecilia is my elder sister, and I have known her for many years.
"It's John," said Margery. "He's talking the most awful rot, and now he says he won't come to the concert."
"Won't come to the concert?" said Cecilia, lifting her eyebrows. "Of course he's coming. Alan's going to sing and John will probably have to say something."
I sat up straight and swallowed hard.
"No, Cecilia," I gasped, "I really can't sing. I'll turn up if you like and cheer and all that sort of thing, but really I can't sing."
"Of course you can. You must. I've told them to put your name down. Everybody has got to do something. It's for St. Dunstan's, you know, and everyone for miles round is turning up."
I subsided, murmuring feebly.
John was gazing moodily at the fire.
"So that's that," said Cecilia cheerfully, resting her hand softly on his shoulder. "And you'd better be thinking what to say to make the jolly old farmers stump up, my dear."
John cleared his throat.
"I've—er—decided not to come to the concert, dear," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous, John," said Cecilia, cooing like a covey (or whatever it is) of doves. "Of course you're coming. I've arranged it all."
"I think I'd rather stop at home, dear," he said; "I can—er—look after Christopher and—er—there's a bit of work I have to finish."
"Christopher will be in bed, and your old work can wait, just as it always has to."
"Well, you know, darling," said John, looking furtively at Margery and me, "I'm not much use at these social affairs. I always say the wrong thing."
"I know you do, dear," said Cecilia sweetly; "but they've all heard you before, and nobody minds."
She paused a moment while John gulped.
"So that's settled, isn't it?" she said.
John gulped again.
