“Caitiff!” cried Miss Heathcote.
Bertram went into the shop, and said “Hullo, Izzard! What on earth are you doing here?”
He’d remembered in a flash—that name and that voice. Major Arthur Izzard, D.S.O., and a double bar to his M.C., the most reckless fellow he had ever met in a front line trench, and one of the most comical. They’d spent some merry and memorable evenings in old Amiens, down from the line, between one “show” and another. Izzard had been a great lad for the eggnogs in Charlie’s Bar, and proclaimed his passion for Marguérite in the restaurant of “La Cathédrale.” Now he seemed to be proprietor, serving-man, and shop-boy in this village storehouse.
When Bertram hailed him, he was sitting on the counter with his legs dangling, arranging some eggs in a basket. Deliberately he let one of the eggs fall and smash, as a sign of his astonishment and delight at seeing Bertram.
“Great Scott! My old college chum!” (This had no foundation in fact.) “My trusty comrade-in-arms! My fellow-consumer of cocktails behind the lines of Armageddon!”
He gripped Bertram’s hand, and pump-handled vigorously, and called in the Vicar’s daughter to be introduced to another “little hero.”
“What’s the game with this shop?” asked Bertram.
Captain Arthur Izzard, D.S.O., said it was no game, but the real business. Like thousands of other officers of the Great War, he had worn out many boots, seeking a job in London. Vainly. England was surfeited with home-coming heroes. She’d nothing to offer them, after they’d won the dear old war. She wanted to forget them. They were a damned nuisance. So in a moment of brilliant inspiration, he had set up this business for himself. It amused him vastly. It also provided him with something to eat. It also enabled him to do good to his fellow beings, by spreading spiritual and intellectual light. He was the centre of village culture. Mothers came to him for advice upon the feeding of babies, maidens desired information on the comparative merits of Ethel M. Dell and Zane Grey. Farmers consulted him on insecticides. Miss Heathcote discussed with him auto-suggestion and the Freudian theory. He bought old furniture from Sussex cottages and sold it, at outrageous profits, to the New Rich, and occasionally Americans. He was a beneficent influence in Sussex, and all the ladies loved him.
“Some of the foolish ones,” said Miss Heathcote, laughing and blushing in a way that suggested affectionate familiarity with this good-looking fellow and his whimsical ways.
“What about social caste?” asked Bertram, and his question amused young Izzard vastly.