When Mrs. Long-Adder heard the final verse, her delight knew no bounds. She at once saw what capital could be made out of calling the “great British Nation” the “pal” of Tommy Atkins, and of giving his “gal” in trust to England. What a point for patriotic pathos! She practised the inflexions of her voice before a mirror.
“Pass the hat round!” This, with demanding fervour, accompanied by the instant action of lifting the hat from the head, and holding it out to the audience. “And say when I’m done for.” Tears in the voice here, with a quickly effective droop of the head and a faint gasp. Then with a burst of enthusiasm and tenderness—“We’ll all look after his gal!”
“It will go like wildfire!” said Mrs. Long-Adder to herself, as she got into her tights, and tried her “khaki” uniform—“Simply like wildfire! That woman Arteroyd is too stupid for anything. She thinks she has worked out a good trick for herself, and so she has, in a way, but she doesn’t seem to see one bit what a first-rate business she is starting me on! Won’t I fool old Dummer-Esel! He’ll have to look after his ‘gal,’ you bet, or my name isn’t Myrtle Long-Adder!”
And acting on this resolve, she very soon set the ball rolling. London, like a big child waiting to be amused, rose to the occasion, and the forthcoming bazaar at the Gilded Rooms, when “the beautiful Mrs. Long-Adder” would recite “an exquisite poem by the gifted Mrs. Arteroyd, whose gallant husband, Colonel John Arteroyd, V.C., was now fighting for England’s glory in South Africa,” became the talk of the town. The Marquise Dégagée heard of it and nearly fainted. The Bazaar would actually take place before her “Fancye Faire,”—before she could have the chance of reciting “Tommy’s Bébé!” in the presence of Prince Dummer-Esel! This was an unlooked-for catastrophe. And the “strained relations between France and England” were not improved by the contretemps. However, there was no help for it,—and the deeply disappointed authoress of “Tommy’s Bébé!” had to conceal her chagrin under an appearance of indifference to the world of fashion, which poured into her rooms in the kindly way the world of fashion has, to tell her of her existing rival,—of the splendour of the preparations at the Gilded Rooms,—how “poor old Dummer-Esel” was really quite off his head with excitement,—what interest he was taking in the affair! How Her Highness of Gottenken was going!—how the Countess of Tiddlywinks would be there!—how the Duchess of Gloriosa would have a stall!—how that delightful dancer (not proper, my dear, but so clever!), that delightful dancer who must be nameless, because so very very bad, would assist in the selling of cigarettes—and Mrs. Long-Adder!—oh yes!—Mrs. Long-Adder’s recitation would be “the thing of the day!”
“And Mrs. Arteroyd,” said the breathless gossips, “is simply wonderful! She wrote the poem that Mrs. Long-Adder is to recite!—fancy that! And that poor man of hers at the front! And she’s got a gown from Paris that’s perfectly gorgeous;—and I know the man who does her hair, and he told me the other day that he was sure she was going to be a social favourite, as she had just bought three new tails of hair! Think of that!—three new tails! And such a gown! My dear, it makes one’s mouth water! And where she gets the money heaven knows! For that poor man at the front has only got three thousand a year!”
“He may be dead by this time!” said the Marquise with a pretty little shudder. “Poor ting! He may be dead!”
For a moment there was silence. The crowd of fashionable chatterers felt distinctly uncomfortable.
The Marquise smiled,—she had made an effect and she was pleased.
“Yes, he may be dead!” she repeated. “And if ze news come while ze bazaar go on—hélas! Come and have some tea!”
The noisy voices and laughter broke out again—the sudden spell of horror was dispersed. And a week later on the society throng “rushed” to the bazaar at the Gilded Rooms,—to see and to be seen—to watch Prince Dummer-Esel with slavish zeal,—to criticise the lovely Mrs. Long-Adder—and to congratulate Mrs. Arteroyd on “Tommy’s Gal!” And truly Mrs. Arteroyd was in her glory. She was quite clever enough to perceive that Mrs. Long-Adder meant to make capital for herself out of the business, and she had previously determined that, having paid a hundred guineas to be “talked about,” talked about she would be. And she spared no pains to win her object. Her dress was a “creation” of some wonderful clinging stuff of delicate amber shades softly interwoven, and impressing the eye with the suggestion of early primroses,—it fitted like a glove, and displayed the contour of the six-guinea corsets to perfection. Men said—poor, dear, deluded men!—“a fine figure of a woman!”—and women eyed her with that casual contempt which is the greatest compliment ill-dressed dames can pay to a well-dressed one. When presented to Prince Dummer-Esel, she curtsied with a fine carelessness, and gave him an upward smile of childlike questioning innocence,—whereat His Highness chuckled and scented fresh game.