CHAPTER II
One great source of mental nourishment that Evangeline relied on at this time was the Press. Two thirds of the things she thought about each day came from the newspapers, plain or illustrated, but not political; that is to say, not political beyond striking headlines and a short—very short—leading article. Her mind made curious pictures of these scraps of state information. Perhaps the best way of describing what she thought Parliament is, and does, is to imagine oneself very agile, very kind, very interested, perched inside the roof of an immense building, looking down on hundreds of elderly gentlemen all of one type, but some with familiar faces. We, from our perch, know that each of them has gone through a period of anxiety and expense, connected with loss of voice and terrible boredom of his supporters, who have to sit behind him on uncomfortable chairs and wish he would pull his coat down at the back before speaking. This period of trial has ended in an election—ribbon and scratch meals—and then he got a “seat” here on something or other benches (Evangeline had been at school, but she wasn’t in the serious lot, at least, not the brainy serious. Her set used only to discuss things like immortality when they felt really friendly.) Once on these “benches” men become political, and lose considerably in spiritual value, except when they call out the army and navy. Otherwise they spend their time henceforth in committing blunders (the meat blunder, the wool blunder, the tax blunder, the housing blunder, etc.), to the perpetual inconvenience of the public, until something happens to the Cabinet and a lot of well-known people who were IN become OUT, and it makes no difference at all, except as a frail raft for the drowning in conversation. But the rest of the paper is worth reading; there are things to interest everybody. The eccentric behaviour of criminals, landladies and leaders of society; adventures, and reports of shipwrecks and calves with two tails. On the last page there is often expert advice on physical fitness and the complexion.
On the morning following Teresa’s walk to the docks with her father Evangeline began to try the effects of the juice of an orange accompanied by half an hour’s deep breathing before breakfast. She had walked and deep breathed in the park, and returned full of exhilaration from the sight of the dewy grass, young tulips pushing through the heavy dun soil and the song of birds in smoke-laden trees and bushes that were budding as irrepressibly as herself. She stood on the edge of a pond and watched the ducks performing an ecstatic toilet. Their guttural sounds of pleasure and the grinding of distant tram wheels were the only sounds besides the chorus of chirping. The only people she met were a policeman on one side of the pond, and a dressmaker’s assistant on the other, and she felt that God was the friend of both as of the ducks and the Spring; they were not at all in the way. When she arrived at home a man in military uniform was standing on the doorstep. He was young and had the face of a reformer.
“Good morning,” she said. “Are you coming in?”
“Please,” he answered gravely, and said no more, while she fitted her latchkey. She led the way into the dining-room, where breakfast was laid, and looked vaguely round.
“Shall I tell my father you’re here?” she asked hesitatingly, and then, with sudden uncontrollable interest, “Are you the man that hasn’t got a wife?”
He started and frowned. He was embarrassed, and felt that the question was not one that should have been asked by a stranger. “No, I am not married,” he snapped.
“Is your name Hatton?” she asked next.
“Yes.”
“Oh, then Father told us about you. Do you want to see him?”