“Poor old Jack!” she said—“I’m glad he’s all right so far! I don’t know why I look for his name in the papers at all, I’m sure,—for of course I should hear direct from the War Office if—if anything had happened. But I dare say he’s really as happy as the day is long. He was mad to go to the Transvaal, and now he’s there I hope he likes it. He was made for active service—but at home—Oh dear!—what a bore he is!”
Her hard brown eyes flashed coldly up and down the columns of news again, like sharp bits of steel getting ready to cut through the insensible paper,—what a number of extraordinary things were being associated with the war, she thought,—and what an exceptionally “good time” some of the “leaders” of society were making for themselves out of “Tommy Atkins”!
“Fancy!” she suddenly exclaimed, as she caught sight of a paragraph placed prominently among other items of “court and society” gossip—“There’s that horrible little fat woman, the Marquise Dégagée, pushing herself everywhere, all because she’s getting up a Babies’ Fund! What an idea! ‘To provide feeding-bottles and perambulators for all infants under twelve months, whose fathers are at the front.’ And she’s actually going to have a ‘Royal Fancye Faire’ for that!”
In her excitement she jumped up and went to the window to read the objectionable announcement over again.
“Not a mention of Me anywhere!” she said, with a pettish stamp of her foot—“it’s too bad! And I’m sure the woman who writes these things actually lives on me. Drops in to lunch,—makes me ask her to dinner,—takes me to dressmakers who of course pay her for bringing me,—and yet with all my good-nature she isn’t a bit grateful—she does nothing for me. The fact is, I must do something for myself. But what shall it be?”
She sat down—or rather she “dropped” languidly into a chair, with that particular scented rustle of herself which she had long practised and loved,—and meditated. Taking up one of the fashionable “weeklies” which cater especially for the feminine world, her brows puckered vexedly, as on its first page she saw the “idealized” picture of a lady with a turned-up nose, and a tiara, labelled “The Marquise Dégagée,” and read the following interesting article.
“TOMMY’S BABY.
“The Marquise Dégagée, who is such a well-known favourite in aristocratic circles” (“What a lie!” ejaculated Mrs. Arteroyd—“She was never heard of till last season, when Lady Pawpurse started ‘running her’!”) “is organizing a charming ‘Fancye Faire’ which will take place in the rooms of the Hotel Beaumonde early next month. The object of the festival is to raise an ‘Infants’ Fund’ which will provide feeding-bottles, bone-rings, teething-pads and other necessaries, including perambulators, for all infants under twelve months, whose fathers are at the front. Royalty, always ready whenever a kind action is concerned, has extended its gracious patronage to the function, and Herr Bunkumopf, violinist of His Serene Highness Prince Dummer-Esel, will give his valuable services to the entertainment gratuitously. Some of the prettiest ladies of the corps de ballet of the Imperial Smoke-House will preside over tea and coffee stalls and will distribute the programmes, and His Serene Highness Prince Dummer-Esel has signified his intention of being present at the opening ceremony. In order not to delay the useful progress of this deserving charity, all mothers in need of feeding-bottles, ‘prams,’ and other baby-comforts are requested to send in their names, together with a copy of their marriage certificates, and the number of their husbands’ regiments to the Hon. Secretary, Miss Jane Muddleup, at the residence of the Marquise Dégagée, Belgrave Square. The Marquise Dégagée is, as everybody knows, a true daughter of the old French nobility, and this generous interest of hers in ‘Tommy’s Baby’ will do much to improve the somewhat strained relations existing just now between France and England. The Marquise has written a touching poem for the occasion, and one of the special features of the ‘Fancye Faire’ will be her own recitation of it, in that pretty broken English which, as hosts of her social friends are aware, makes her conversation so peculiarly charming. We are permitted to produce one verse of this dainty and delicately humorous lyric:—
“TOMMY’S BEBE!”
“Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!