“None of that, now, with those feathers,” the city says to the intruding dove. “I know you’re not a wolf. You don’t need to tell me what I can see. But you’ve got a beak, and I wouldn’t put it past you to get pecking at my legs.”
But they received Susie at once with open arms. She came from London, which is always nice; her parents had been born in Millport of absolutely pure wool stock, her husband had inherited money from a good old lady before the war, and Susie had only to appear in her own spotless fleece of nice feeling upon every subject—especially wine—for them to cluster round her with acclamations and summon their kind from the most distant parts of the county.
CHAPTER III
Miss Archer, reporter for the Millport News, stood just inside the first reception-room at the Town Hall. There was a suite of rooms, leading one into the other, showing a vista of hats and baldish heads and faces of all sorts wedged together in packs or moving in a slow stream with eddies and cross currents. The stream rose in the great entrance hall of the building. It was brought by contributory motors and broughams, from all parts of the town, suburbs and county, and it flowed upstairs and through the rooms and down again through a temporary congestion at the first door where Miss Archer stood with her little note book. A middle-aged woman, mastering fatigue with vivacity, stood beside her and made rapid remarks in an undertone, pointing out this or that noteworthy face or garment. Her hand was conspicuous by being so obviously ill at ease in its white glove. It was a worker’s hand, full of strength and sensibility, and the sillily cut glove sat on it like a bonnet on a horse. The Mayor and Mayoress remained just within the big folding doors which were set wide apart, a footman planted on either side. The footman on the left had nothing about him to allay the suspicion that he was stuffed, except his small twinkling eyes that spoke of much experience of humanity, a family life of his own and knowledge of the moral difficulties of rich men. His counterpart on the right was unable to give way to the same luxurious calm, being compelled to undergo the trouble of repeating strange syllables whispered into his ear, such as “—siz-an-Miss-S-Arkbury,” “—stron-misses J’n’per,” etc.; if it had not been that he knew the names of the greater number of the guests he would probably have broken down and been led weeping to the nearest public-house. As it was he battled bravely on, and beyond the momentary annoyance of the Harburys who became “Barleys,” and the Muskovilles who became “Musk-and-veal,” and so on, it didn’t really matter. People who knew them knew them, and those who didn’t didn’t mind.
“Who were those last, did you hear?” Miss Archer bent to ask her friend. “They’re new, surely; I must note their dresses; they’re very good. There—the woman in grey with sables, and the two girls.”
“‘Fulton!’ I thought he said,” answered the tired woman. She followed them with her eyes to where they stopped, looking at the crowd and talking now and then to each other. Susie was benevolently dimpling, as if the party were hers, and commenting to her daughters on the beauty of the rooms. “Architecture makes so much difference to a building, doesn’t it?” she said. “It would be so easy to spoil a big place like this by making it clumsy and in bad taste. But I do admire this immensely, don’t you?”
“There’s Mrs. Manley gone up to them now,” said Miss Archer’s friend. “I tell you—won’t they be the new general’s family that someone said had come? There’s some new arrangement or other about the soldiers. I know my nephew who’s a territorial said something about a General Fulton coming to be over the whole lot of them; not separated as they used to be.”
Miss Archer wrote down, “—in a distinguished combination of old gold and palest petunia, relieved by valuable antique buckles. Mrs. Slacks looked well in mauve, with one of the new violet pyramid hats.” “What did you say? Yes, I should think that’s very likely. Let me see. Grey poult de soie, isn’t it, with sables? and her two young daughters (she was scribbling again) in girlish foam of niaise crepe in the new swallow blue that has lately come into its own. Yes, that will do.”
“There’s Mrs. Carpenter speaking to them,” said the friend. “I don’t know how you are going to dish up that checked coat of hers again. I must catch Mr. Beaver if I can—he has just gone through—and see if he will take the chair on the 15th.” She disappeared among the crowd, and presently Miss Archer tripped away to take a turn through the rooms to make sure she had omitted no one of importance.
“Shall we find a table for you?” Mrs. Manley said to Susie. “It will take us through the rooms on the way and there are several people you must meet.”