It pleased me to throw the responsibility on someone else.
V
THE IDEAL IN PERIL
The Fainéant Club was going to the devil, which was unnecessary, considering the state of the weather. There was nobody about—including Wentworth Boyle. The magazines were uncut—cutting meant energy. The tape machine ticked out nothing but cricket scores, in which I am not interested. A waiter was sleeping in a chair in a remote corner, the only suggestion of coolness about the place. There was absolutely nothing to do. It was too hot to swear.
I went to the window and looked out. Piccadilly was a glaring Sahara. The rows of horses across the way were limp as chewed string, and lived for nothing but the next water-cart that should pass and drench their burning hocks. The trees bore spiritlessly their burden of dust; and the only energetic thing in sight was an impervious newsboy crying the fatalities of the heat-wave—a Song of Degrees.
I was in a fermenting state of discontent. The season had only just begun, and there were at least six weeks of this to look forward to—six weeks of hot, breathless theatres, and daily martyrdoms on the Row. The season was confounded rot. I had half a mind to throw the whole thing up. I went to the writing-table, wrote a complaint to the committee on the iced drinks, murmured the prayer for rain, and returned to the window.
Why did the women look so cool when the men were in such a state of collapse? Millicent Dixon had just driven past, looking as fresh as a buttercup. I saw Millie Dixon twice a week on an average, and she always did look fresh. Yet she must be eight-and-twenty.
I determined to walk, if I could do so without risking a sunstroke. The first parasol of my acquaintance that passed should be my refuge, provided the bearer were not too stout. I am stoutish myself.
A white gown was tripping—tripping!—towards the club window, which, from a certain trick of carriage, should belong to Mrs. Loring Chatterton. I calculated my time carefully, and stepped from the club awning to the shelter of the sunshade. Mrs. Loring is slight.
“My dear Mr. Butterfield, how do you do?”
“Thank you, my dear lady,” I replied; “with a little basting I shall do to a turn.”