When I was living in California he had refused to come to the dining-table in my own house, and gone to bed while the guests were arriving. Fate was against him, however, in that instance. I invented a fairy tale to cover his absence and all would have been well, but while the maid was passing coffee in the drawing-room Mr. Saltus remembered a bottle of gin in the pantry. No one answering his ring, he slipped down the back stairway to secure it, and tripping, fell down the entire length, with such a thud that guests as well as servants were in doubt if a burglar or an earthquake was responsible. With one accord they rushed in the direction of the sound and discovered him in extreme negligée, to his even more extreme embarrassment. This was an episode he did not like referred to, but upon this second offense it was dragged out again in all its details!
"No white woman should have married you," I exploded, "and I have only myself to blame with two sad examples to warn me. Good-night."
It was no rare treat to appear at a dinner of celebrities after the guests were seated, minus the star who was my sole reason for being included, and take it as if I were lapping up cream. To be casual was no joke. I entered with the remark, that, being an assemblage of egos answering to the classification genius, they alone could appreciate the temperamental spells of unknown origin afflicting the species—and be tolerant to a fellow in crime. To sit down and pretend to enjoy it topped the treat.
A fortnight later saw us at the Granville Hotel, Ramsgate, for the week end. As he had been there less frequently than myself, and knew fewer people, some one referred to Mr. Saltus as "Mrs. Saltus' husband." That amused him enormously.
"They have me in my proper place here," he exclaimed. "They know I am a subordinate entity."
A greater surprise was, however, awaiting him when a child on the sand called out:—
"Look,—there is Toto's Papa!"
That sent Mr. Saltus into a fit of laughter. He always enjoyed a joke on himself so much. The sea air which is supposed to induce sleep was our reason for going to Ramsgate, but even sea air handicapped by the noise of slamming doors and loud talking in the halls, seemed useless. I complained of this before going to my room, and Mr. Saltus said that he would speak to the manager of the hotel and see what could be done about it.
The following morning, upon going out with the dog, I almost fell over Mr. Saltus. He had sat on a chair with his back against my door all night in order to urge those who passed to be quiet. That offset the incident of the burglar and the dinner with interest, yet he did not feel that he had done anything exceptional. He was himself,—that was all. The latent sweetness and unselfishness in his character developed along lines uniquely his own. He was an entity who could not be taken apart and analyzed. He had to be accepted as a whole or not at all. He had his weaknesses,—they were near the surface and but imperfectly concealed. He had also a nobility, a fineness and a greatness of soul I have never seen equalled by any human, at any time, anywhere.
A day or two later the world was shaken by the word WAR. Rumours of it had been in the air for some time,—not a world war to be sure, but a civil one in Ireland. Leading Home Rule members of Parliament had been in nightly conference with the Prime Minister, and from what our friend "Tay Pay" had let drop, we anticipated anything but what eventuated. No one in unprepared England dreamed of war. The idea was too bizarre, too theatrical to be true. Everyone was talking about it, but no one really believed it possible, except perhaps those few who, having an extension of consciousness, could penetrate the veil of the seeming of things.