Ethelbert, a bright lad of nineteen, ordered by his master into the special constabulary during the third General Strike—I use the conventional numeration—was so unfortunate as to crack smartly upon the head a high dignitary of the Church of England, and was thereupon put in prison at the instance of Lady Sophia—the eminent cleric's wife—who would take no denial. Upon release, the General Strike being still in progress—it was the first of the really long General Strikes, as you will remember, he joined the regular police force, which is ever ready to welcome men of varied experience and initiative. But he never developed the intelligence required for the agent provocateur, in which capacity such members of the service as have had personal experience of the cells are commonly employed. He is now past thirty and doing clerical work in the Lost Property Department.
What else remains? The horse, Attaboy, is dead, worn out in faithful labours at the stud. He was the sire of Get-On out of Get-Out. Get-Out, I need hardly tell you, was the sire of Success by Morning Star. Success was the sire of Repetition by Raseuse; and that is how Tabouche won the Oaks. I always did say the little filly would do well, for I have followed the strain—as, long ago, the form—of Attaboy, who now sleeps with his fathers—I means, sires, let alone dams.
Controversy conducted with umbrellas between a
Professor (of Crystallography) and a Reader
(in Crystallogy) to the University.
As for the parrot, whom I may call the second Attaboy, he is still the cherished, the beloved, of that constant heart, Marjorie; Mrs. Munster, née de Bohun, sometime Lady Galton, as also Mrs. Pemberton—yes, Pemberton. So far as I can remember, she is nothing else—so far. Such a charming woman! Touching upon the lovely confines of middle age with large bulges under rather weary eyes. But her father provides handsomely.
As for that father, the head of the family, Humphrey de Bohun—pronounced Deboon—he looks no older. It would be odd if he could. He feels no older—that would be impossible. But he is inclined to colds in the head. He now tells the same story over and over again, the story of the Emerald. And it always ends, "Now guess who it was?" They do not murder him, they give it up; and he dodders out, "Why! It was a jackdaw!"
Victoria Mosel has, since the date of the great discovery of the Emerald, spent week-ends at Basingthorpe, Prawley, Hammerton, Gainger, Bifford, then again at Hammerton, then again at Gainger, after that at Little Wackham. Then at Bifford again, then at Gainger, and, of course, at Prawley. She also stayed at the Breitzes' place in Silesia for three months, where she shot the bailiff's dog—by accident. May I tell you that she has spent six weeks in every year on the Riviera? Can I deny that, at this very moment of writing, she is stopping at Hammerton, having passed the last week-end at Gainger and purposing to go on to Bifford?
The years leave no mark upon her temporal frame, for the skin was ever tight upon her bones. But she knows that she is getting on—and not in the City sense of that term either. She already envisages the tomb. I am fond of her. I think she will save her soul.
One great asset which endears her to the rich of her circle. Sir William Collop is always ready and even eager to come at her bidding to any country house, and there she puts him through his paces, to the enormous joy of the assembled hosts and guests. But she is a good girl—I use the word of a woman now nearing sixty—and she does him no harm. Only, she does make him dance. And why not?