“What tour?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I’m booked with the ‘Troubadours’ from the first of July; next Monday. A month at Maidenhead, then a fortnight of Hastings, wind up at Bournemouth. Got it through young Tommy Weekes; he has cancer of the throat, and mayn’t sing in the open,—or anywhere else, I should imagine, poor Tom, except in the heavenly choir—and for that he don’t sing the right kind of song. Being able to strum on the mandoline settled it for me, and jolly thankful I was, too.” He spoke quickly, feeling the impending disapproval.
“You’re leaving Chavvy here?”
“Yes,” defiantly.
“It’s hardly fair, dad; she’ll be miserable. ’Tisn’t her sphere.”
“I’m not going to tour with a wife,” muttered Bertram. “Where’s the fun, Peter? And she hangs round me—oh, you’ve seen!”
True that Chavvy was of an ivy-like disposition. And even a Pierrot will turn if sufficiently Pierretted upon.
“I couldn’t have stood this infernal tidiness a day longer,” continued Bertram gaily, his momentary depression lifted at the prospect of freedom. “’Pon my word, Peter, I dunno how you’ve put up with it all these years. I’d lift you out, if I could; take you along with me. I wonder—perhaps you could hold a tambourine, or something,” doubtfully.
“Thanks,” said Peter, really grateful; “but I don’t think I’ll do that, it’s too difficult. Besides, the tidiness is only surface, and doesn’t worry me much. But it’s a shame to leave Chavvy planted in the midst of it.”
“My dear, to her it’s the height of luxury, after all the hardships she’s undergone; clean towels every week, a bath every night, nice society, what more can she want?” Bertram had not the faintest idea of being illogical. And try as she would, Peter was unable to detach herself from his point of view. It was, after all, merely a repetition of Stuart’s creed, to cease sucking when the orange was dry. But then, spoke justice, one must not marry the orange.