It may be that in future years when critics and commentators look back upon the European War, one of the aspects of it that will seem to them strangest will be the attitude of complete indifference that certain people assumed during the course of it. Indifference! That is an inefficient word. It is not too strong to say that hundreds of men and women in London during those horrible years were completely unconscious, save on the rare occasions when rationing or air-raids forced them to attend, that there was any war at all. There were men in clubs, women in drawing-rooms ... old maids and old bachelors ... old maids like Miss Morganhurst.
How old Miss Morganhurst really was, for how long she had been raising her lorgnette to gaze scornfully at Society, for how many years now she had been sitting down to bridge on fine sunny afternoons with women like Anne Carteledge and Mrs. Mellish and Mrs. Porter, for how many more years she had lived in No. 30 flat at Hortons, she alone had the secret—even Agatha, her sour and confidential maid, could not tell.
No one knew whence she came; years ago some young wag had christened her the "Morgue," led to that diminutive by the strange pallor of her cheeks, the queer bone-cracking little body she had and her fashion of dressing herself up in jewellery and bright colours that gave her a certain sort of ghastliness. She had been for years an intimate of all sorts of sets in London: no one could call her a snob—she went just everywhere, and knew just everyone; she was after two things in life—scandal and bridge—and whether it were the old Duchess of Wrexe's drawing-room (without the Duchess of course) or the cheapest sort of provincial tea-party, she was equally at home and satisfied. She was like a ferret with her beady eyes—a dressed-up ferret. Yes, and like the "Morgue" too, a sniff of corruption about her somewhere.
People had said for many years that she was the best bridge-player in London, and that she lived by her winnings. That was, I daresay, true enough. Her pale face looked as though it fed on artificial light, and her over-decorated back was always bent a little, as though she were for ever stooping over a table.
I've seen her play bridge, and it's not a sight one's likely to forget—bent almost double, her hooky fingers of a dull yellow loaded with rings pointing towards some card and her eyes literally flashing fire. Lord! how these women played! Life and death to them truly ... no gentle card-game for them. She was a woman who hated sentiment; her voice was hard and dry, with a rasp in it like the movement of an ill-fitting gate. She boasted that she cared for no human being alive, she did not believe in human affection. Her maid, Agatha, she said, would cut her throat for twopence; but, expecting to be left something in the will, stayed on savagely hoping.
It is hard, however, for even the dryest of human souls to be attached to nothing. Miss Morganhurst had her attachment—to a canine, fragment of skin and bone known as Tiny-Tee. Tiny-Tee was so small that it could not have been said to exist had not its perpetual misery given it a kind of spasmodic loveliness. It is the nature of these dogs to shiver and shake and tremble, but nothing ever lived up to its nature more thoroughly than Tiny-Tee. Miss Morganhurst (in her own fierce rasping way) adored this creature. It never left her, and sat on her lap during bridge shuddering and shivering amongst a multitude of little gold chains and keys and purses that jangled and rattled with every shiver.
Then came the war, and it shook the world to pieces. It did not shake Miss Morganhurst.
For one bad moment she fancied that bridge would be difficult and that it might not be easy to provide Tiny-Tee with her proper biscuits. She consulted with Mrs. Mellish and Mrs. Porter, and after looking at the thing from every side they were of opinion that it would be possible still to find a "four." She further summoned up Mr. Nix from the "vasty deeps" of the chambers and endeavoured to probe his mind. This she did easily, and Mr. Nix became quite confidential. He thoroughly approved of Miss Morganhurst, partly because she knew such very grand people, which was good for his chambers, and partly because Miss Morganhurst had no kind of morals and you could say anything you liked. Mr. Nix was a kindly little man and a diplomatic, and he suited himself to his company; but he did like sometimes to be quite unbuttoned and not to have "to think of every word."
With Miss Morganhurst you needn't think of anything. She found his love of gossip very agreeable indeed; she approved, too, of his honourable code. You were safe with him. Not a thing would he ever give away about any other inhabitant of Hortons. She asked him about the food for Tiny-Tee, and he assured her that he would do his best. And the little dinners for four?... She need not be anxious.
After which she dismissed the war altogether from her mind. It would, of course, emphasise its more unagreeable features in the paper. That was unfortunate. But very soon the press cleverly discovered a kind of camouflage of phrase which covered up reality completely. "The honourable gentleman, speaking at Newcastle last night, said that we would not sheathe the sword until——" "Over the top! those are the words for which our brave lads are waiting——" "Our offensive in these areas inflicted very heavy losses on the Germans and resulted in the capture of important positions by the Allied troops."