LITMIR.BIZ

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out on the snow.

      “It is lovely,” she said reflectively. “People must be ill when they write like Maxim Gorky.”

      “They live in town,” said I.

      “Yes — but then look at Hardy — life seems so terrible — it isn’t, is it?”

      “If you don’t feel it, it isn’t — if you don’t see it. I don’t see it for myself.”

      “It’s lovely enough for heaven.”

      “Eskimo’s heaven perhaps. And we’re the angels, eh? And I’m an archangel.”

      “No, you’re a vain, frivolous man. Is that —? What is that moving through the trees?”

      “Somebody coming,” said I.

      It was a big, burly fellow moving curiously through the bushes.

      “Doesn’t he walk funnily?” exclaimed Marie. He did. When he came near enough we saw he was straddled upon Indian snow-shoes. Marie peeped, and laughed, and peeped, and hid again in the curtains laughing. He was very red, and looked very hot, as he hauled the great meshes, shuffling over the snow; his body rolled most comically. I went to the door and admitted him, while Marie stood stroking her face with her hands to smooth away the traces of her laughter.

      He grasped my hand in a very large and heavy glove, with which he then wiped his perspiring brow.

      “Well, Beardsall, old man,” he said, “and how’s things? God, I’m not ‘alf hot! Fine idea though —” He showed me his snow-shoes.

      “Ripping! ain’t they? I’ve come like an Indian brave —”

      He rolled his “r’s”, and lengthened out his “ah’s” tremendously —“brra-ave”.

      “Couldn’t resist it though,” he continued.

      “Remember your party last year — Girls turned up? On the war-path, eh?” He pursed up his childish lips and rubbed his fat chin.

      Having removed his coat, and the white wrap which protected his collar, not to mention the snowflakes, which Rebecca took almost as an insult to herself — he seated his fat, hot body on a chair, and proceeded to take off his gaiters and his boots. Then he donned his dancing-pumps, and I led him upstairs.

      “Lord, I skimmed here like a swallow!” he continued — and I looked at his corpulence.

      “Never met a soul, though they’ve had a snow-plough down the road. I saw the marks of a cart up the drive, so I guessed the Tempests were here. So Lettie’s put her nose in Tempest’s nosebag — leaves nobody a chance, that — some women have rum taste — only they’re like ravens, they go for the gilding — don’t blame ’em-only it leaves nobody a chance. Madie Howitt’s coming, I suppose?”

      I ventured something about the snow.

      “She’ll come,” he said, “if it’s up to the neck. Her mother saw me go past.”

      He proceeded with his toilet. I told him that Leslie had sent the carriage for Alice and Madie. He slapped his fat legs, and exclaimed:

      “Miss Gall — I smell sulphur! Beardsall, old boy, there’s fun in the wind. Madie, and the coy little Tempest, and —” he hissed a line of a music-hall song through his teeth.

      During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat.

      “Little pink of a girl worked it for me — a real juicy little peach — chipped somehow or other”— he had arranged his white bow — he had drawn forth two rings, one a great signet, the other gorgeous with diamonds, and had adjusted them on his fat white fingers; he had run his fingers delicately through his hair, which rippled backwards a trifle tawdrily — being fine and somewhat sapless; he had produced a box, containing a cream carnation with suitable greenery; he had flicked himself with a silk handkerchief, and had dusted his patent-leather shoes; lastly, he had pursed up his lips and surveyed himself with great satisfaction in the mirror. Then he was ready to be presented.

      “Couldn’t forget today, Lettie. Wouldn’t have let old Pluto and all the bunch of ’em keep me away. I skimmed here like a ‘Brra-ave’ on my snow-shoes, like Hiawatha coming to Minnehaha.”

      “Ah — that was famine,” said Marie softly.

      “And this is a feast, a gorgeous feast, Miss Tempest,” he said, bowing to Marie, who laughed.

      “You have brought some music?” asked mother.

      “Wish I was Orpheus,” he said, uttering his words with exaggerated enunciation, a trick he had caught from his singing, I suppose.

      “I see you’re in full feather, Tempest. Is she kind as she is fair?”

      “Who?”

      Will pursed up his smooth sensuous face that looked as if it had never needed shaving. Lettie went out with Marie, hearing the bell ring.

      “She’s an houri!” exclaimed William. “Gad, I’m almost done for! She’s a lotus-blossom! — But is that your ring she’s wearing, Tempest?”

      “Keep off,” said Leslie.

      “And don’t be a fool,” said I.

      “Oh, 0-0-Oh!” drawled Will, “so we must look the other way! ‘Le bel homme sans merci’!”

      He sighed profoundly, and ran his fingers through his hair, keeping one eye on himself in the mirror as he did so. Then he adjusted his rings and went to the piano. At first he only splashed about brilliantly. Then he sorted the music, and took a volume of Tchaikovsky’s songs. He began the long opening of one song, was unsatisfied, and found another, a serenade of Don Juan. Then at last he began to sing.

      His voice is a beautiful tenor, softer, more mellow, less strong and brassy than Leslie’s. Now it was raised that it might be heard upstairs. As the melting gush poured forth, the door opened. William softened his tones, and sang ‘dolce’, but he did not glance round.

      “Rapture! — Choir of Angels,” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands and gazing up at the lintel of the door like a sainted virgin.

      “Persephone — Europa —” murmured Madie, at her side, getting tangled in her mythology.

      Alice pressed her clasped hands against her bosom in ecstasy as the notes rose higher.

      “Hold me, Madie, or I shall rush to extinction in the arms of this siren.” She clung to Madie. The song finished, and Will turned round.

      “Take it calmly, Miss Gall,” he said. “I hope you’re not hit too badly.”

      “Oh — how can you say ‘take it calmly’— how can the savage beast be calm!”

      “I’m sorry for you,” said Will.

      “You are the cause of my trouble, dear boy,” replied Alice. “I never thought you’d come,” said Madie.

      “Skimmed here like an Indian ‘brra-ave’,” said Will. “Like Hiawatha towards Minnehaha. I knew you were coming.”

      “You know,” simpered Madie, “it gave me quite a flutter when I heard the piano. It is a year since I saw you. How did you get here?”

      “I came on snow-shoes,” said he. “Real Indian — came from Canada — they’re just ripping.”

      “Oh — Aw-w do go and put them on and show us — do! — do perform for us, Billy dear!” cried Alice.

      “Out in the cold and driving sleet — no fear,” said he, and he turned to talk to Madie. Alice sat chatting with Mother. Soon Tom Smith came, and took a seat next to Marie; and sat quietly looking over his spectacles with his sharp brown eyes, full of scorn for William, full of misgiving for Leslie and Lettie.

      Shortly after, George and Emily came in.

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