In my early married days, when the great coffee-urn was still a menace to my composure and dignity, at a little home-dinner, when Mr. William Black, the famous writer of Scottish novels, honored me by his presence on my right, Mr. Barrett on my left, moved, no one knows by what freak of memory, lifted his glass, and, speaking low, said: "'Just Clara,' your health!"
I laughed a little, and was nodding back, when Mr. Black, who saw everything through those glasses of his, cried out: "Favoritism, favoritism! why, bless my heart, I drank your health ten minutes ago, and you never blushed a blush for me! And I am chief guest, and on the right hand of the hostess—explanations are now in order!"
And Mr. Barrett said that he would explain on their way to the club, whereupon Mr. Black wrinkled up his nose delightedly, and said he "scented a story"—"and, oh," he cried, "it's the sweetest scent in the world, the most fascinating trail to follow!"
But I was thankful that he did not hunt down his quarry then and there, for he could be as mischievous as a squirrel and as persistent as any enfant terrible, if he thought you were depriving him of a story.
Though tears creep into my eyes at the same moment, yet must I laugh whenever I think of Mr. Barrett's last "call" upon me. We were unknowingly stopping in the same hotel. On the way to the dining-room for a bit of lunch, Mr. Harriott and Mr. Barrett met, exchanged greetings, and when the latter found I was not going to luncheon, and was moreover suffering from a most severe attack of neuralgia, he asked if he could not call upon me for a few moments.
Mr. Harriott looked doubtful, and while he hesitated, Mr. Barrett hastily added: "Of course I shall merely say 'How do you do,' and express my sympathy, since I know something about neuralgia myself—that's all."
Upon which they turned back, and Mr. Harriott ushered the unexpected, the spick-and-span caller into my presence, with the reassuring word: "Mr. Barrett is sparing a moment or two of his time, Clara, to express his sympathy for you."
When a woman knows she is an "object," words of welcome for the unexpected visitor are apt to come haltingly from the tongue, and that I was an "object" no one can deny. A loose, pink dressing-gown was bad, a knit white shawl huddled about the shoulders was worse, but, oh, worst of all, my hair was all scrambled up to the top of my head (hair was dressed low then), and a broad handkerchief bandage concealed from the eye, but not from the nose, the presence of a remedial poultice of flour and brandy.
Truly it is such acts as this that brings many a well-meaning but apparently demented husband into the divorce court. Now any friend, relative, or servant would have bravely but politely prevaricated to the last gasp rather than have admitted a caller to me in that state, but husbands have no discretion, husbands have no—well, that's too large a contract, so I'll keep to that call.
I was aghast for a moment, but the warm pressure of Mr. Barrett's hand, his brightening eye gave me such an impression of sincerity in his pleased greeting that I forgot I was an "object," and asked him to sit down for a chat, as eagerly as though I had had all my war-paint on.