“Only Mr. Dreiser need have it. He is German and likes it.”
I assumed as German a look as I might,—profound, Limburgery.
“And I believe you like Mr. Jones’s sausage,” he observed on another occasion, referring to an American commodity, which he had heard me say in New York that I liked. “We shall have some of those.”
“Are American sausage like English sausage?” inquired young Charles Gerald interestedly.
“Now Heaven only knows,” I replied. “I have never eaten English sausages. Ask your father.”
Barfleur merely smiled. “I think not,” he replied.
“Christmas is certainly looking up,” I said to him badgeringly. “If I come out of here alive,—in condition for Paris and the Riviera,—I shall be grateful.”
He beamed on me reprovingly.
Well, finally, to make a long story short, the day came, or, at least, the day before. We were all assembled for a joyous Christmas Eve—T. McT., Sir Scorp, Gerard Barfleur, the dearest aunt and the charming cousin, extremely intelligent and artistic women both, the four children, Barfleur’s very clever and appealing secretary, and myself. There was a delightful dinner spread at seven-thirty, when we all assembled to discuss the prospects of the morrow. It was on the program, as I discovered, that I should arise, and accompany Barfleur, his aunt, his cousin, and the children to a nearby abbey church, a lovely affair, I was told, on the bank of the Thames hard by the old English town called Bridgely, while Gerard Barfleur, who positively refused to have anything to do with religion of any kind, quality or description, was to go and reconnoiter a certain neighboring household (of which more anon), and to take young James Herbert (he of the “bawth”) for a fine and long-anticipated ride on his motor cycle. Lord Scorp and T. McT. were to remain behind to discuss art, perhaps, or literature, being late risers. If there was to be any Santa Claus, which the children doubted, owing to Barfleur’s rather grave asseveration to the contrary (there having been a number of reasons why a severely righteous Santa might see fit to remain away), he was not to make his appearance until rather late in the afternoon. Meanwhile we had all adjourned to the general living-room, where a heavy coal fire blazed on the hearth (for once), and candles were lighted in profusion. The children sang songs of the north, accompanied by their governess. I can see their quaint faces now, gathered about the piano. Lord Scorp, McT. and myself indulged in various artistic discussions and badinage; Mrs. Barfleur, the aunt, told me the brilliant story of her husband’s life,—a great naturalistic philosopher and novelist,—and finally after coffee, sherry, nuts and much music and songs,—some comic ones by Gerard Barfleur,—we retired for the night.
It is necessary, to prepare the reader properly for the morrow, to go back a few days or weeks, possibly, and tell of a sentimental encounter that befell me one day as I was going for a walk in that green world which encompassed Bridgely Level. It was a most delightful spectacle. Along the yellowish road before me, with its border of green grass and green though leafless trees, there was approaching a most interesting figure of a woman, a chic, dashing bit of femininity,—at once (the presumption, owing to various accompanying details was mine) wife, mother, chatelaine,—as charming a bit of womanhood and English family sweetness as I had yet seen in England. English women, by and large, let me state here, are not smart, at least those that I encountered; but here was one dressed after the French fashion in trig, close-fitting blue, outlining her form perfectly, a little ermine cap of snowy whiteness set jauntily over her ear, her smooth black hair parted demurely over her forehead, a white muff warming her hands, and white spats emphasizing the trim leather of her foot gear. Her eyes were dark brown, her cheeks rosy, her gait smart and tense. I could scarcely believe she was English, the mother of the three-year-old in white and red wool, a little girl, who was sitting astride a white donkey, which, in turn, was led by a trim maid or nurse or governess in somber brown,—but it was quite plain that she was. There was such a wise, sober look about all this smartness, such a taut, buttressed conservatism, that I was enchanted. It was such a delightful picture to encounter of a clear December morning that, in the fashion of the English, I exclaimed, “My word! This is something like!”