The ceremonial being concluded, the two gentlemen reclaimed him and led him outside, and there he met Mrs. Gridley, who drove him up the Palisades Road, her husband and brother following in a chartered taxi with Mr. Boyce-Upchurchs luggage. There was quite a good deal of luggage, including a strapped steamer-rug and two very bulging, very rugged-looking kit bags and a leather hat-box and a mysterious flat package in paper wrappings which Mr. Braid told Mr. Gridley he was sure must contain a framed steel engraving of the Death of Nelson.
Mr. Braid pattered on:
For a truly great and towering giant of literature, our friend seems very easy to control in money matters. Docile thats the word for it, docile. He let me tip the porter at the club for bringing down these two tons of his detachable belongings, and on the way up Madison Avenue he deigned to let me jump out and go in a shop and buy him an extra strap for his blanket roll, and he graciously suffered me to pay for a telegram he sent from the other side, and also for that shoe-shine and those evening papers he got on the boat. Told me he hadnt learned to distinguish our Yankee small change. Always getting the coins mixed up, he said. Maybe he hasnt had any experience.
Rather brusk in his way of speaking to a fellow, admitted Mr. Gridley. You might almost call it short. And rather fussy about getting what he wants, I should say. Still, I suppose he has a great deal on his mind.
Launcelot will fairly dote on him, said Mr. Braid. Mark my words, Launcelot is going to fall in love with him on the spot.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Gridley was endeavoring to explain to Mr. Boyce-Upchurch why it was that in a town lying practically on a river so large and so wide as the Hudson there could be a water shortage. He couldnt appear to grasp it. He declared it to be extraordinary.
This matter of a water shortage apparently lingered in his mind, for half an hour later following tea, as he was on the point of going aloft to his room to dress for dinner he called back to his host from half-way up the stairs:
I say, Gridley, no water in the taps, your wife tells me. Extraordinary, what? Tell you what: Ill be needing a rub-down tonight stuffy climate here and all that. So later on just let one of your people fetch up a portable tub to my room and bring along lots of water, will you? The water neednt be hot. Like it warm, though. Speak about it, will you, to that slavey of yours.
Mrs. Gridley gave a quick little wincing gasp and a hunted look about her. But Delia had gone to carry Mr. Boyce-Upchurchs waistcoat upstairs. The episode of the waistcoat occurred a few minutes before, immediately after the guest had been ushered into the house.
Frightfully warm, he remarked on entering the living-room. Tell me, is America always so frightfully warm in summer? Then, without waiting for an answer, he said: Think I must rid myself of the wescut. All over perspiration, you know. So saying, he took off first his coat and next his waistcoat and hung the waistcoat on a chair and then put the coat back on again. Still, as Mr. Braid remarked in an undertone to nobody in particular, it wasnt exactly as though Mr. Boyce-Upchurch had stripped to his shirt-sleeves because, so Mr. Braid pointed out to himself, the waistband of the trousers came up so high, especially at the back, and the suspenders he caught himself here and mentally used the word braces instead the braces were so nice and broad that you didnt see enough of the shirt really to count.
Dinner was at seven-thirty, with twelve at the table and place cards, and Delia impressed to aid Ditto at serving, and the finest show of flowers that Mrs. Gridleys dusty and famished garden could yield. She had spent two hours that afternoon picking the least wilted of the blossoms and designing the decorative effects. Little things occurred, one or two of them occurring before the dinner got under way.
Ditto approached the lady of the house. Madame, he said throatily, in the style of one who regally bears yet more regal tidings, madame, Mr. Boyce-Upchurch doesnt care for cocktails. E would prefer a sherry and bittez.
Oh! exclaimed Mrs. Gridley in a small panic of dismay. Oh, Im so sorry but Im afraid there isnt any sherry.
Theres cooking sherry out in the kitchen, sis, said Mr. Braid, who stood alongside her smiling happily about nothing apparently. Tackled it myself the other day when I was feeling daredevilish.
But the bitters whatever they are!
Give him some of that cooking sherry of yours and hell never miss the bitters.
Sh-h-h, she warned, he might hear you.
He didnt, though. At that moment Mr. Boyce-Upchurch was in conversation with Mrs. Thwaites and her husband from two doors away. He was speaking to them of the hors dœuvres which had just been passed, following the cocktails. The Thwaites were fellow countrymen of his; their accent had betrayed them. Perhaps he felt since they spoke his language that he could be perfectly frank with them. Frankness appeared to be one of his outstanding virtues.
It now developed that the relish attracted him and at the same time repelled. Undeniably, Norahs fancy ran to the concoction of dishes, notably, appetizers and salads, which one read about in certain standard womens magazines. Her initial offering this night had novelty about it, with a touch of mystery. Its general aspect suggested that Norah had drowned a number of inoffensive anchovies in thick mayonnaise and then, repenting of the crime, had vainly endeavored to resuscitate her victims with grated cheese.
Messy-looking, eh? Mr. Boyce-Upchurch was pointing an accusing finger at the coiled remains on a bit of toast which Mrs. Thwaites had accepted, and he was speaking in a fairly clear voice audible to any who might be near at hand. Glad I didnt take one. Curious fancy, eh what, having the savory before dinner instead of afterwards that is, if the ghastly thing is meant to be a savory?
Major Thwaites mumbled briefly in a military way. It might have been an affirmative mumble or almost any other variety of mumble; you could take your choice. Mrs. Thwaites, biting at her lower lip, went over and peered out of a front window. She had an unusually high color, due perhaps to the heat.
That, substantially, was all that happened in the preliminary stages of the dinner party. There was one more trifling incident which perhaps is worthy to be recorded but this did not occur until the second course was brought on. The second course was terrapin. Mrs. Gridley was a Marylander and she had been at pains to order real diamond-backs from down on the Eastern Shore and personally to make the stew according to an old recipe in her family. Besides, the middle of July was not the regular season for terrapin and it had required some generalship to insure prime specimens, and so naturally Mrs. Gridley was proud when the terrapin came on, with the last of her hoarded and now vanishing store of Madeira accompanying it in tiny glasses.
Mr. Boyce-Upchurch sniffed at the fragrance arising from the dish which had been put before him. He sniffed rather with the air of a reluctant patient going under the ether, and with his spoon he stirred up from the bottom fragments of the rubbery black meat and bits of the queer-shaped little bones and then he inquired what this might be. He emphasized the this.
Its terrapin, explained Mrs. Gridley, who had been fluttering through a small pause for him to taste the mixture and give his verdict. One of the special dishes of my own state.
And whats terrapin? he pressed. She told him.
Its terrapin, explained Mrs. Gridley, who had been fluttering through a small pause for him to taste the mixture and give his verdict. One of the special dishes of my own state.
And whats terrapin? he pressed. She told him.
Oh, he said, sort of turtle, eh? I shant touch it. Take it away, please, this to the reverential Ditto hovering in the immediate background.
From this point on, the talk ceased to be general. In spots, the dinner comparatively was silent, then again in other spots conversation abounded. From his seat near the foot, Mr. Braid kept casting interpolations in the direction of the farther end of the table. Repeatedly his sister squelched him. At least, she tried to do so. He seemed to thrive on polite rebuffs, though. He sat between the Thwaites, and Major Thwaites was almost inarticulate, as was usual with him, and Mrs. Thwaites said very little, which was not quite so usual a thing with her, and Mr. Braid apparently felt that he must sow his ill-timed whimsicalities broad-cast rather than bestow them upon the dead eddy of his immediate neighborhood.
For instance, when Miss Rachel Semmes, who was one of Ingleglades most literary women, bent forward from her favored position almost directly opposite the guest of honor and said, facing eagerly toward him over the table, Oh, Mr. Boyce-Upchurch, talk to me of English letters, Mr. Braid broke right in:
Lets all talk about English letters, he suggested. My favorite one is Z. Well, I like H, too, fairly well. But to me, after all, Z is the most intriguing. Whats your favorite, everybody?
Here, as later, his attempted levity met deservedly the interposed barrier of Miss Semmes ignoring shoulders. She twisted in her place, turning her back on him, the more forcibly to administer the reproof and with her eyes agleam behind her glasses and her lips making little attentive sucked-in gasping sounds, she harkened while Mr. Boyce-Upchurch discoursed to her of English letters with frequent references to his own contributions in that great field.
As the traveled observer in his own time may have noted, there is a type of cultured Britisher who regards it as stupid to appear smart in strange company, and yet another type who regards it as smart to appear stupid. Mr. Boyce-Upchurch fell into neither grouping. He spoke with a fluency, with an authoritative definiteness, with a finality, which checked all counter-thoughts at their sources. In his criticisms of this one and that one, he was severe or he was commendatory, as the merits of the individual case required. He did not give opinions so much as he rendered judgments. There was about him a convincing firmness. There was never even a trace, a suggestion of doubt. There were passages delivered with such eloquence that almost it seemed to some present as though Mr. Boyce-Upchurch must be quoting from a familiar manuscript. As, if the truth must be known, he was. Still, had not all of intellectual America as far west as Omaha acclaimed Masters of the Modern English Novel, with Selected Readings from the Authors Own Books as a noteworthy platform achievement?
Thus the evening passed, and the Gridleys dinner party. All had adjourned back again to the living-room, where coffee and cigarettes were being handed about, when from without came gusts of a warm swift wind blowing the curtains and bringing a breath of moistness.
Oh, I believe its really fixing to rain, declared Mrs. Gridley, hopefully, and on this, as if in confirmation, they all heard a grumble of distant summer thunder off to the northwest.
At that, Mrs. Thwaites said she and the Major really must run home theyd come away leaving all the windows open. So they bade everybody good night the first ones to go.
Mr. Braid saw them to the door. In fact he saw them as far as the front porch.
Coming to the lecture tomorrow night, I suppose, he said. Rally around a brother Briton, and all that sort of thing?
I am not, said little Mrs. Thwaites, with a curious grim twist in her voice. I heard it tonight.
Perishing blighter! said the Major; which was quite a long speech for the Major.
Im ashamed! burst out Mrs. Thwaites in a vehement undertone. Arent you ashamed, too, Rolf?
Rarther! stated the Major. He grunted briefly but with passion.
Fault of any non-conformist country, pleaded young Mr. Braid, finely assuming mortification. Raw, crude people that sort of thing. Well-meaning but crude! Appalling ignorance touching on savories. No bitters in the home. No
Dont make fun, said Mrs. Thwaites. You know I dont mean that.
Surely, surely you are not referring to our notable guest? Oh, Perfidious Albinos! He registered profound grief.
I am not. Her words were like little screws turning. Why should we be ashamed of him Rolf and I? Hes not typical the insufferable bounder! Our writing folk arent like that. He may have been well-bred I doubt it. But now utterly spoiled.
Decayed, amended her husband. Blighting perisher! he added, becoming, for him, positively oratorical.
Its you Americans Im ashamed of, continued this small, outspoken lady. Do you think wed let an American, no matter how talented he might be, come over to England to snub us in our own homes and patronize us and preach to us on our shortcomings and make unfair comparisons between his institutions and ours and find fault with our fashion of doing things? Wed jolly well soon put him in his place. But you Americans let him and others like him do it. You bow down and worship before them. You hang on their words. You flock to hear them. You pay them money, lots of it. You stuff them up with food, and they stuff you with insults. This one, now hes a sponge. Hes notorious for his sponging.
Pardon, please, interjected Mr. Braid. There you touch my Yankee pride. Sponging is an aquatic pastime not confined to one hemisphere. You perhaps may claim the present international champion but we have our candidates. Gum we may chew, horn-rimmed cheaters we may wear, but despite our many racial defects we, too, have our great spongers. Remember that and have a care lest you boast too soon.
You wont let me be serious, you do spoof so, said Mrs. Thwaites. Still, I shall say it again, its you Americans that Im ashamed of. But I was proud of you tonight, young man. When you mispronounced the name of Maudlin College by calling it Magdeline, the Yankee way, and he corrected you, and when immediately after that when you mentioned Sinjin Ervine as St. John Ervine and he corrected you again, I knew you must be setting a trap. I held my breath. And then when you asked him about his travels and what he thought of your scenic wonders and he praised some of them, and you brought in Buffalo and he said he had been there and he recalled his trip to Niagara Falls and you said: Not Niagara Falls, dear fellow Niffls! why that was absolutely priceless scoring. Wasnt it absolutely priceless, Rolf?
Rarther! agreed the Major. He seemed to feel that the tribute demanded elaboration, so he thought briefly and then expanded it into Oh, rarther!
We do our feeble best, murmured young Mr. Braid modestly, and sometimes Heaven rewards us. Heaven was indeed kind tonight Speaking of heavenly matters look!
As though acting on cue the horizon to the west had split asunder, and the red lightning ran down the skies in zig-zag streaks, like cracks in a hot stove, and lusty big drops spattered on the porch roof above them.