“Getting potty,� said the listener. “Those Government clerkships play the devil with a man’s waist. Nothing to do but eat, drink, sleep, walk, or drive to the Office and sit in a chair gumming up envelopes or drawing heads on the blotting paper when you’re there, until you fall asleep. Once you’re asleep, you don’t wake till it’s time to go home. Consequently you develop adipose tissue.� He yawned.
“Do you suppose,� asked the teller of the tale, with large contempt, “that Shelmadine lived the life of one of those human marmots—Shelmadine, a man so sensitively, keenly alive to the beauty of Shape, Form, Line, and Proportion? Do you dream that he lightly risked the inevitable result of indulgence in the pleasures of the table or the delights of drowsiness? If so, you are wrong. He rose at 5 a.m., winter and summer, in town or country, and after a hot bath, followed by a cold douche, pursued a course of physical exercises until seven, when he breakfasted on milkless tea, dry toast, or gluten biscuits�—the other man shuddered—“with, perhaps, a little plain boiled fish, its lack of flavor undisguised by Worcester sauce or any other condiment.�
“Horrible!� said the other man. “I once tried....�
“After breakfast, in all weathers, he walked five miles, within the Radius, returning to dress for the day. Anon he would saunter down Bond Street, look in at the shops, where he was adored, and criticize the new models submitted to him, as only Shelmadine could, show himself at his Club, stroll in the Park, and get to the Ordnance Office about eleven. The floors at Whitehall are solidly built, consequently his habit of jumping backward and forward over the office-table when he felt his muscles dangerously relaxed, met with little, if any, opposition in the Department. Dumb-bells, of course, were always ready to hand. At his Club the invariable luncheon supplied to him was the eye of a grilled cutlet, a glass of claret and water, eight stewed prunes, and, of course, more gluten biscuits. He shunned fat-forming foods more than he would the devil!�
“And made his life a hell!� said the other man, with conviction.
“My dear fellow,� said the relater, “you can’t understand what a man’s life is or is not until you have seen both sides of it. A Second Division Higher-Grade War Office clerkship allows of a good deal of liberty. Picture Shelmadine as the enfant gâté of Society, followed, stared at, caressed and courted, by the smartest feminine leaders of fashion, as well as by the swellest men, as the acknowledged Oracle in Clothes. There’s a position for a young man single-handed to have achieved. To be the vogue—the rage—the coq de village—the village being London—and at twenty-seven.�
“Exhausting,� said the other man, “to keep up, but sufficiently agreeable. Quite sufficiently agreeable! And I realize that at the psychological moment, when the fellow discovered that his figure had begun to run to seed, he sustained a shock—kind of cold moral and mental douche a professional beauty gets when her toilet glass shows her the first crow’s-foot. Did your friend have hysterics and ask his valet for sal-volatile? I should expect it of him!�
“Shelmadine did not employ a man,� said the teller of the tale, fixing his eyeglass firmly in its place, “to do anything but brush his clothes. For all other purposes connected with the toilet he preferred a Swiss lady’s-maid. Do not misunderstand, my friend,� he added sternly, as the listener exploded in a guffaw of laughter. “Honi soit ... the rest of the quotation is familiar to you. And Mariette Duchâtel had been strongly recommended to him by his aunt, Lady Bigglesmith, as a most desirable person for the post of housekeeper. She was at least fifty—retained the archæological remains of good looks, and owned a moustache a buddin’ Guardsman might be jealous of, by Jingo! But her heart had remained youthful, or we may so conjecture.�
“I begin to tumble to the situation of the swelling subject of your story,� said the other man, pouring out a Benedictine. “When your elderly housekeeper happens to be in love with you, it is bad enough. Things become complicated when the victim of your charms happens to be your maid. Continue!�
“A visit to his tailor’s on the day on which my story begins,� said Bonson, “convinced Shelmadine that—in fact, his outlines were becoming indefinite. ‘This will not do, sir,’ said his tailor, a grave and himself a portly personage, ‘with your reputation for silhouette to keep up—and at your years. We will let out the garment one inch—a thing I decline to do even for Royal Personages, as destructive of the design—and as this is now the Autumn Season I recommend you to obtain leave. Klümpenstein in the Tyrol has a reputation for reducing weight; its waters have done wonders for several of my customers, and the Rittenberg affords several thousand feet of climbing opportunity to tourists who wish to be quickly rid of superfluous girth. But, first of all, I should consult Dr. Quox, of Harley Street. Good-morning.’