Men of Affairs

by Roland Pertwee

Of course, with Isabel the welcome extended beyond the mere taking of hands. There is a proper way of embracing your son's affianced wife; that is, of course, if you happen to be of the same period as Mrs. Barraclough. A kiss on the forehead, one on each cheek, an examination at arm's length, and finally, after a perfect duck of a shared smile and a murmured "my dear," the gentlest kiss imaginable on the extreme point of the chin. It is at once a tribute and an acceptance—the cashier's neat initial that honours your signature to a cheque drawn on the account of happiness.

Alas, that some of our modern mothers have lost the knack of this pretty exchange. Their greeting is of a harsher tone. They bridge the separating gulf between youth and age with talk of Auction. They speak to the girl of "making a four" after dinner when the only real concern is that she should make a two that is spiritually one. And because this is so the modern mother will remain more often "in-law" than in heart, which is a very great pity indeed.

They had never met before but Isabel knew at the first touch of those sweet prim lips that Anthony's mother was also hers—was also a darling—was also a trump—was also every kind of good thing that she ought to be.

"Oh, I'm so glad I came," she gasped. "It won't be half so bad with you to help me wait."

And Mrs. Barraclough, who hadn't the smallest idea what she was talking about, nodded and replied:

"Of course not, my dear, of course not."

Inside the drawing room tea was waiting on a silver tray, with a silver kettle throwing out a hiss of silver steam. Never had Isabel seen any silver that was as bright as this. It shone with the innocent lustre of wedding presents and even the little methylated spirit flame that boiled the water looked as if it had been polished with a chamois leather.

There was a walnut tea caddy studded with brass that had to be unlocked, and inside were two compartments with tin-foil linings in which the precious leaves guarded their aroma and defied larceny. Mrs. Barraclough took two spoonfuls from one side and one from the other that the correct blend might be achieved and these she mixed upon a tiny square of white cartridge paper. Then the cups were warmed and the water was put in—and some muffins and Jane, who had apple cheeks and smiling red lips, came in the room and the business of pouring out began, which is almost as great and almost as lost a secret as the varnish of the violin makers of Cremona. And Isabel felt good all over because she knew that Mrs. Barraclough, and the room, and Jane, and the muffins, and the tea, and the evening were all the right temperature—warm—mellow—comforting. Outside the window was a thrush who sang. He was a soloist, and when he stayed to fill his throat a chorus of sparrows, close packed upon the upper branches of a tilting cedar, chirped gladly with a single voice.

And listening and tasting and feeling all the sweetness of the countryside, the fairness of tradition, the delicacy of age and custom, a lump came into Isabel's throat—hot, angry and convulsive. For somewhere out beyond was her man—facing unknown dangers, taking terrible risks, followed by relentless men.

Yet all this was his and he had left it. She was his and he had left her—deserting both at the bidding of that frightful master who commands us all—that ruler of men's destinies whose initials are L.S.D. [Transcriber's note: abbreviations for Pounds, shillings, pence.]