“Not a gentleman, of course,” pronounced our Dictator, helping herself to another lot of Pêches Melba (the vigorous old creature had cherry-brandy with it too), “but a very capable man. He is on our hospital committee and he puts his foot down on the younger men in a very admirable way; never wastes too much time on discussion. A splendid financier; doesn’t allow improvements to be carried beyond a reasonable distance.”
“He has dreadful manners, though,” sighed Mrs. County, who eats nothing but vegetables, and refuses sweets because she says they spoil her form at badminton. “The Duchess presided at the annual meeting of our Waifs and Strays at the Town Hall the other day, and she said that the Mayor made his speech with his foot on her muff.”
“Then she shouldn’t have left her muff on the floor,” replied Mrs. Bushytail. “The Duchess was an old friend of mine when you were in the schoolroom, my dear, and I shall tell her that she ought to take better care of her things.”
“Lady Seelby said the Town Hall smelt very strong of onions,” Mrs. County ventured again with her eyes half shut.
I was pleased at things going like this—maliciously pleased. Instead of the two suspected firebrands setting up a conflagration in the camp, there were the two representatives of law and order (the town and the county) sparring together over the personal habits of the chief magistrate; while the heathen and the anarchist sat with milk and honey on their lips, ready to pour balm on the wounds of the combatants!
All the same, I think that Mrs. Cambridge and I would have let them lose a little more blood before we actually interfered; but Miss Darling flew to the rescue and stopped a second round by saying that the dear Mayoress had been so sweet with the children on Empire Day, and that no one knew what a powerful force the Mayor was among the inebriates of the city. She hoped it was not going to rain: it was looking rather threatening. But what a lovely colour the leaves were at this time of year. It seemed so sad that they must all come off.
“We will drive you to the reception, dear,” said Mrs. Merchant gratefully; and then we all rose, and I escaped into the garden to have a cigarette behind the lobelias.
When Mrs. Bushytail had driven off in a robust brougham, her two obese horses guided by an apoplectic old man, and Mrs. County had departed on foot to whatever cross-bred residence her husband’s particular brand of ketchup provides for her, Miss Darling, Mrs. Cambridge (who was also going to the reception), Mrs. Merchant and I spread ourselves comfortably in the Rolls-Royce, and were driven to the Town Hall.
Numbers of people were in the great hall, waiting to meet their friends. There was a large sprinkling of Bushytails and Countys, but most of the crowd were of another type, which I have not met before. I took them to be honest tradesmen of the oblong and erratic shapes which seem inseparable from commerce. But several of them turned out to belong to the best society, and the dumpiest one of all, dressed in the most creased and stained frock-coat and the worst trousers, was Mrs. Cambridge’s husband. I have sometimes wondered why both commercial and professional men are often so incurably slovenly, and I begin to think it must be owing to some instinct of self-preservation which leads them to shun the sort of women who would look after their clothes by force. To make a busy man look tidy when he does not want to, it must be necessary to worry him all day, and no doubt women who have the firmness and pertinacity for the task are recognized by naturally baggy men in the same way as the presence of a cat is scented from afar by even the most absent-minded mouse.
At the top of a wide staircase decorated with palms we found the Mayor and Mayoress. Bessie would have called them “fairies,” but you know how inappropriate her descriptions are. Anything from a round of beef to a rainbow may be a fairy if it excites her imagination. But, indeed, they were wonderful! Have you ever seen a mayor? If not, take a stockbroker and stuff him quite tight until he creaks. Dress half of him for a wedding—not forgetting spats—and the other half for “standing at the plate” outside a Scotch kirk (he wears a white tie and a frock-coat). Dab bits of fur on his eyebrows, but not on his head—you leave that quite bare—and then hang a heavy locket and chain round his neck. For a mayoress, take a gentle, timid old lady out of a woolshop. Dress her regardless of expense, and frighten her to death. Then hang another locket and chain round her neck, and there you are!