"Heathen!" was Mrs. Bindle's sole comment.
Millie Hearty herself had been much troubled by Mr. MacFie's ponderous attentions. At first she had regarded them merely as the friendly interest of a pastor in a member of his flock; but soon they became too obvious for misinterpretation.
"Millikins!" said Bindle one evening, as he and Millie were walking home from the pictures, "you ain't a-goin' to forget Charlie, are you?"
"Uncle Joe!" There was reproach in Millie's voice as she withdrew her arm from Bindle's.
"All right, Millikins," said Bindle, capturing her hand and placing it through his arm, "don't get 'uffy. Ole Mac's been makin' such a dead set at you, that I wanted to know 'ow things stood."
Bindle's remarks had opened the flood-gates of Millie's confidence. She told him that she had not liked to speak of it before because nothing had been said, although there had been some very obvious hints from Mr. Hearty.
"I hate him, Uncle Joe. He's always – always – " She paused, blushing.
"A-givin' of you the glad-eye," suggested Bindle. "I seen 'im."
"Oh, he's horrible, Uncle Joe. I'm sure he's a wicked man."
"'Course 'e is," replied Bindle with conviction, "or 'e wouldn't be a parson."
Bindle had spoken to Mr. Hearty about the matter. "Look 'ere, 'Earty, you ain't goin' back on them two love-birds, are you?" he enquired.
Mr. Hearty had regarded his brother-in-law with what he conceived to be reproving dignity.
"I do not understand, Joseph," he remarked in hollow, woolly tones.
"Well, there's ole Mac, always a-givin' the glad-eye to Millikins," explained Bindle.
"If you wish to speak of our minister, Joseph, you must do so respectfully, and I cannot listen to such vulgar suggestions."
"Oh, come orf of it, 'Earty! you're only a greengrocer, an' greengrocers don't talk like that 'ere, whatever they may do in 'eaven. If you're a-goin' to 'ave any 'anky-panky with Millikins over that sandy-'aired son of a tub-thumper, then you're up against the biggest thing in your life, an' don't you forget it."
Bindle was angry.
"Of late, Joseph," Mr. Hearty replied, "you have shown too much desire to interfere in my private affairs, and I cannot permit it."
"Oh! you can't, can't you?" said Bindle. "Don't you forget, ole sport, that if it 'adn't a-been for me 'oldin' my tongue, you wouldn't 'ave 'ad no bloomin' affairs for me to mix up in."
Mr. Hearty paled and fumbled with the right lapel of his coat.
"Any'ow," said Bindle, "Millikins is goin' to marry Charlie Dixon, an' if you're goin' to try any of your dirty tricks over Ole Skin-and-Oatmeal, then you're goin' to be up against J.B. There are times," muttered Bindle, as he walked away from the Heartys' house, "when 'Earty gets my goat"; and he started whistling shrilly to cheer himself up.
Bindle was still troubled in his mind about Mr. Hearty's scheme for Millie's future and, one Sunday evening, he determined to forgo the Night Club, in order to call upon the Heartys with the object of conveying to Mr. MacFie in the course of conversation that Millie was irrevocably pledged to Charlie Dixon.
Mr. MacFie had formed the habit of supping with the Heartys after evening service, and frequently Mrs. Bindle was of the party.
Bindle's Sunday evening engagements at the Night Club had been a cause of great relief to Mrs. Bindle. For some time previously Mr. Hearty's invitations to the Bindles to take supper on Sunday evenings had been growing less and less frequent. It did not require a very great effort of the imagination to discover the cause. Bindle's racy speech and unconventional views upon religion were to Mr. Hearty anathema, and whilst they amused Mrs. Hearty, who, having trouble with her breath, did not seem to consider that religion was meant for her, they caused Mr. Hearty intense anguish. He felt safe, however, in asking Mr. MacFie to supper on Sundays because Mrs. Bindle had confided to him that Bindle was always engaged upon the Sabbath night. She did not mention the nature of the engagement.
When Bindle entered the drawing-room, Mr. Hearty, Mr. MacFie, Mr. Gupperduck and Mrs. Bindle were gathered round the harmonium. Mrs. Hearty sat in her customary place upon the sofa waiting for someone to address her that she might confide in them upon the all-absorbing subject of her breath.
Mr. Gupperduck was seated on a chair, endeavouring to discipline his accordion into not sounding E sharp continuously through each hymn. The others were awaiting with keen interest the outcome of the struggle.
"Got a pain, ain't it?" enquired Bindle, having greeted everybody, as he stood puffing volumes of smoke from one of "Sprague's Fulham Whiffs," a "smoke" he still affected when Lord Windover was not present to correct his taste in tobacco.
"Well, wot's the joke?" he went on, looking from the lugubrious countenance of Mr. MacFie to the melancholy foreboding depicted on that of Mr. Hearty.
Turning to Mrs. Hearty, Bindle pointed his cigar at her accusingly. "You been tellin' naughty stories, Martha," he said, "I can see it. Look at them coves over there"; he turned his cigar towards Mr. Gupperduck and Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Martha, Martha!" and he wagged his head solemnly at Mrs. Hearty, who was already in a state of helpless laughter, "ain't you jest the limit, and 'im a parson, too."
Millie Hearty entered the room at this moment and ran up to her uncle, greeting him affectionately.
"Oh, Uncle Joe, I'm so glad you've come," she cried. "You never come to see us now."
"Well, well, Millikins, it can't be 'elped. It's the war, you know. That cove Llewellyn John is always wantin' me round to give 'im advice. Then I 'ave to run over an' give Haig an 'int or two. Ain't the Kayser jest mad when 'e 'ears I been over, because it means another push. Why, would you believe it, sir," he turned to Mr. MacFie, "the reason they didn't make ole 'Indenburg a prince last birthday was because 'e 'adn't been able to land me.
"'Get me Joe Bindle, dead or alive,' said the Kayser to 'Indy, 'an' I'll make you a prince,' an' ain't old 'Indenburg ratty." Bindle nodded his head knowingly.
Millie laughed. "You mustn't tell such wicked fibs on Sunday, Uncle Joe," she cried. "It's very naughty of you."
Bindle pulled her down upon his knee and kissed her. "You ain't goin' agin your ole uncle, are you, Millikins?" he cried; then suddenly turning to Mr. Hearty he enquired, "Ain't we goin' to 'ave any 'ymns, 'Earty? 'Ere, I say, can't you stop Wheezy Willie doin' that, ole sport?" this to Mr. Gupperduck who was still struggling to silence the mutinous E sharp; "sets my teeth on edge, it does. I'm in rare voice to-night, bought some acid drops, I did, as I come along, an' 'ad two raw eggs in the private bar of The Yellow Ostrich."
Bindle ran up a dubious scale to prove his words.
"Oh! do be quiet, Uncle Joe," laughed Millie. "You'll frighten Mr. MacFie away."
Bindle turned and regarded the solemn visage of Mr. MacFie; his long immobile upper lip; his sandy hair, parted in the middle and brushed smoothly down upon his head.
"No, Millikins," he said with conviction, "there ain't nothink wot'll frighten a Scotchman out of England. They know wot's wot, they do. Ain't that so, sir?" he enquired of Mr. MacFie.
Mr. MacFie regarded Bindle as if he were talking in a foreign tongue.
Mr. Gupperduck laid his accordion on a chair, giving up the unequal struggle. The others, taking this as a signal that music was over for the evening, seated themselves in various parts of the room.
"I'm glad you're 'ere, sir," said Bindle to Mr. MacFie. "I wanted your advice on somethink in the Bible. Now then, Millikins, you got to sit down beside me. Can't sit on your uncle's knee when we're talkin' about the Bible. Wot'll Charlie say?" Then turning to Mr. MacFie with what he imagined to be great subtlety and tact, Bindle enquired, "You ain't met Charlie Dixon, 'ave you, sir?"
Mr. MacFie shook a mournful head in negation.
"'E's goin' to marry Millikins, ain't 'e, Millikins?"
Millie cast her eyes down and, with heightened colour, bowed her head in affirmation of Bindle's statement.
"Pretty pair they'll make too," said Bindle with conviction. "I 'ope you'll be marryin' 'em, sir."
Mr. MacFie looked uncomfortable.
"But that ain't wot I wanted to talk to you about," continued Bindle. "I 'appened to pick up the Bible to-day," – Mrs. Bindle looked sharply at him, – "and it sort of opened at a place where there was a yarn about war, so I read it.
"It was about a cove called Urrier an' a king named David."
"Uriah the Hittite," murmured Mr. Hearty.
"Urrier 'ad got a smart bird, – that's a gal, sir," Bindle explained to Mr. MacFie, – "and David 'ad sort o' taken a likin' to 'er, so wot does David do but send Urrier to the front, so as 'e might get killed, an' then David pinches 'is gal.
"Now wot I want to know, sir," said Bindle, addressing Mr. MacFie, "is wot Gawd did? 'Cos as far as I can see 'E was sort o' fond o' David. Now if I'd been Gawd, an' David 'ad done a thing like that, I'd 'a raised a pretty big blister on 'is nose."
No one spoke. Mr. Hearty glanced covertly at Mr. MacFie, who looked as if he would have given much to be elsewhere. Mrs. Bindle's lips had entirely disappeared. Mrs. Hearty gasped and heaved, whilst Minnie blushed.
"Bindle!" cried Mrs. Bindle at last; "Bindle, you forget yourself."
"Not me, Mrs. B., I come 'ere to get wot you an' 'Earty calls 'light.' Now, sir," turning to Mr. MacFie, "wot do you think Gawd did, an' wot do you think o' that blighter David?"
"Meester Beendle," said Mr. MacFie at last, "we must leave to Proveedence the things that belong to Proveedence."
"I thought you'd agree, sir; you're a sport, you are. Of course David ought to 'ave left to Urrier wot belonged to Urrier, and not pinch 'is gal. You wouldn't do a thing like that, sir, would you?" he enquired. "I wonder wot the gal thought, eh, Millikins?" he enquired, turning to his niece.
"If I had been her," said Millie, "I should have killed David."
"Millie!" gasped Mr. Hearty. "How – how dare you say such a thing."
"I should, father," replied Millie quietly.
Mr. MacFie coughed, Mr. Hearty looked about him as if for something at which to clutch, then with sudden inspiration he said, "Millie, we will have a hymn."
"'Ere, let me get out," cried Bindle in mock alarm. "I can't stand Wheezy Willie again, too much of one note. Good night, Martha. My, ain't you gettin' fat," he remarked as he stood looking down at Mrs. Hearty, whereat she went off into wheezes and heavings of laughter. "S'long, 'Earty, I 'ope the allotments won't ruin you," and Bindle took his departure.
Millie went down to the door to see him out. "Uncle Joe," she whispered, as she bade him good night, "I understood."
"Oh, you did, did you?" said Bindle. "Ain't we getting a wise little puss, Millikins," and Bindle walked home whistling "The Long, Long Trail."
CHAPTER VIII
THE CHAPEL CONVERSAZIONE
Lady Knob-Kerrick's nomination of the Rev. Andrew MacFie to the vacant pastorate at the Alton Road Chapel was her way of showing that an amnesty had been arranged between them, and Mr. MacFie had accepted it with the nearest approach to pleasure that he ever permitted himself. Miss MacFie, his sister and housekeeper, had sniffed; but it was always difficult to discriminate between Miss MacFie's physical and mental sniffs. During the winter she seemed to suffer from a perpetual cold in the head. It sometimes attacked her in the spring and autumn, so that only during the months of June, July and August could one say with any degree of certainty that Miss MacFie's sniffs meant indignation and not an inflamed membrane.
In commemoration of his long ministry at the Alton Road Chapel, the Rev. Mr. Sopley was to receive an illuminated address, a purse of fifty pounds and a silver-mounted hot-water bottle. For reasons of economy the presentation was to be made on the same occasion as the conversazione inaugurating the pastorate of Mr. MacFie. This conversazione had been delayed for some months, as Miss MacFie had been forced to remain behind at Barton Bridge in order to recover from a particularly severe chill, and also to arrange for the letting of the house.
In the meantime Mr. MacFie had taken lodgings in Fulham, thus freeing Mr. Sopley, whose health for some time past had not been good. It had been arranged, however, that the retiring shepherd should be present at the celebration in order to receive the address, the purse and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.
Lady Knob-Kerrick had consented herself to make the presentation, and a glee-party had been arranged for to entertain the guests. It had first been suggested that the services should be engaged of a man who produced rabbits out of top-hats, and omelettes from ladies' shoes; but it had been decided that such things were too secular for the occasion.
Lady Knob-Kerrick had insisted that the words of the glees should first be submitted to her, and a lengthy correspondence had taken place between her and the leader of the glee-party. The first list had been vetoed in its entirety. One item, entitled "Oh! Hush Thee My Baby," was considered by Lady Knob-Kerrick as not quite nice; it might make the young girls feel self-conscious. Another one of a slightly humorous nature referred to a man's "bleeding nose." Lady Knob-Kerrick had written to the leader of the glee-party in uncompromising terms upon the indelicacy of submitting to her so coarse a composition. After a brisk interchange of letters, a programme was eventually decided upon.
The conversazione was held in the Chapel school-room. A considerable portion of Mr. Hearty's drawing-room furniture had been requisitioned in order to give to the place an appearance of "homeiness" and comfort. Mr. Hearty's clock and lustres were upon the mantelpiece, and Mr. Hearty's pink candles were in the lustres. Chains of coloured paper, to Mr. Hearty the extreme evidences of festivity, stretched from the corners of the room to the central gas bracket on which had been placed opaque pink globes.
Nothing, however, could mitigate the hardness of the scriptural texts in oak Oxford frames that garnished the walls. "Prepare to Meet Thy God," even when in gold letters entwined with apple-blossom, seemed scarcely the greeting for those who had been invited to revel. "The Wages of Sin is Death," with violets coquetting in and out the letters, is sound theology; but not a convincing invitation to merry-making. "And So Shall Ye All Likewise Perish," with primroses that seemed to have paled through long association with so terrible a menace, threw out its uncompromising warning from immediately above the refreshment-table. On the table itself was everything that a little money could buy, from fish-paste sandwiches to home-made three-cornered tarts, with raspberry-jam baked hard peeping out at the joins, as if to advertise that there was no deception.
Millie Hearty had striven to mitigate the uncompromising gloom of the texts by placing evergreens above the frames; but with no very pronounced success.
Mr. Hearty had supplied the fruit and Mr. Black the groceries at "cost-price." That is to say, Mr. Hearty had taken off a halfpenny a pound from his tenpenny apples, and Mr. Black three farthings a bottle from his one and ninepenny lemon-squash.
On the night of the conversazione, Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle arrived early in order to put finishing touches to everything. Mrs. Bindle was wearing a new dress of puce-coloured merino, and Mr. Hearty had donned a white tie in honour of the occasion. His trousers still concertinaed mournfully down his legs until they despairedly met his large and shapeless boots.
Millie Hearty was also an early arrival. In her white frock she looked strangely out of place associated with her father and aunt.
Mr. Hearty fidgeted about from place to place in a state of acute nervousness. His eyes, roving round in search of some defect in the arrangements, fixed themselves upon the gas. Fetching a chair he mounted it and lowered in turn each burner, then, replacing the chair against the wall, he stepped some distance back to see the effect. The result was that he once more mounted the chair and readjusted the flames to the same height as before.
Mrs. Bindle also moved about, but always with a set purpose, putting finishing touches to everything. Alice, the Heartys' maid, seemed to be engaged in a game of in and out, banging the door at each entry and exit. In spite of the frequency with which this was done, it caused Mr. Hearty each time to look round expectantly.
"Is Joseph coming?" he enquired of Mrs. Bindle.
"Yes," she replied, "but I've warned him." There was a grimness in her voice that carried conviction to Mr. Hearty.
"Thank you, Elizabeth, thank you. I was very upset the other night, very." He suddenly rushed away to the harmonium, where one of the candles was burning smokily.
"Mr. Gupperduck can't come," said Mrs. Bindle as she rearranged the fish-paste sandwiches. "He's got a meeting at Hoxton."
Mr. Hearty made some murmur of response as he dashed across the room to adjust three chairs that lacked symmetry.
"I wish they'd come, Alf," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, hitting the front of a bright green bodice. Sartorially Mrs. Hearty always ran to brilliancy.
"I hope Mr. MacFie will not be late," said Mr. Hearty in a tone of gloomy foreboding.
Mr. MacFie's arrival at that moment, accompanied by Miss MacFie, put an end to this anxiety. Miss MacFie was a tall, flat-chested, angular woman of about forty, with high cheek-bones and almost white eyebrows and eyelashes. She greeted Mr. Hearty and the others without emotion. Mr. MacFie had eyes for no one but Millie.
The next arrival was the Rev. Mr. Sopley, "all woe and whiskers," as Bindle had once described him. Mournfully he shook hands with all and, seating himself on the first available chair, cast his eyes up towards the ceiling, his habitual attitude.
Alice sidled up to Mrs. Bindle and, in a whisper audible to all, enquired:
"Am I to call out the names, mum?"
"Certainly, Alice," replied Mrs. Bindle. "As each guest arrives you will announce the names clearly." Then turning to Mr. Hearty she said, "I think that you and Mr. MacFie ought to receive the guests at the door."
"Certainly, Elizabeth, certainly," said Mr. Hearty. There was unaccustomed decision in his voice. He was glad of something definite to do. Striding over to Mr. MacFie, he whispered to him and practically dragged him away from Millie. The two of them took up their positions near the door, where they stood staring at each other as if wondering what was to happen next.
Mrs. Hearty from time to time beat her chest.
"It's me breath," she confided to Mr. Sopley, then subsided into wheezing.
"Ha!" Mr. Sopley changed the angle of his gaze. Whenever spoken to he invariably opened his mouth with a jerk, as if he had been suddenly brought back from another world by someone hitting him in the wind. As often as not he re-closed his mouth without further sound. It was obvious to the most casual observer that he was here on earth because Providence had decreed it, and not from any wish of his own.
Suddenly Alice threw open the outer door.
"Mr. Pain and 'is wife, mum," she announced.
Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty became instantly galvanised into activity.
"Not his wife," corrected Mrs. Bindle in a whisper.
"But she is 'is wife," protested Alice indignantly. "Ain't you, mum?" she enquired of Mrs. Pain.
Mrs. Pain simpered her acquiescence as she turned to Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty, who had raced towards her.
"You should say 'Mr. and Mrs. Pain,' Alice," said Mrs. Bindle with quiet forbearance.
"Sorry," remarked Alice, turning to go. "I ain't used to this 'ere. Why can't they come in without all this yelling out of names?" she muttered. "They ain't trains."
Mr. Pain, a small man with a bald head and a tuft of black hair in the centre of a protruding forehead, shook hands joyfully with Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty. He was wearing a black frock-coat and light brown tweed trousers, a white waistcoat and a royal blue tie. Mrs. Pain was a tall thin woman, garbed in a narrow brown skirt with a cream-coloured bodice, over-elaborated with lace. The sleeves of her blouse reached only just below the elbows, and the cream gloves on her hands failed to form a liaison with the blouse. Round her neck was flung a locket suspended by a massive "gold" chain. Both she and Mr. Pain were violent in their greetings, after which they proceeded over to two chairs by the wall where they seated themselves and proceeded to converse in undertones, Mr. Pain drawing on a pair of black kid gloves.
"Mr. and Mrs. Withers," bawled Alice.
Mrs. Bindle nodded approval, and Mr. and Mrs. Withers shook hands with Mr. Hearty and Mr. MacFie, much as Mr. and Mrs. Pain had done.
Mr. Withers carried a small sandy head on one side, and a frock-coat tightly buttoned over his narrow chest. His smallness was emphasised by the vastness of Mrs. Withers, whose white silk bodice, cut low at the neck, and black skirt, fitted her amorously, as if the wearer's intention were to diminish her size.
For some time Alice carried out her duties with marked success, and Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty were kept as busy as an American President at election time. An unfortunate episode occurred in connection with two of the most important members of Mr. MacFie's flock, Mr. Tuddenham and Mr. Muskett.
Mr. Tuddenham was a stout, self-important little man with a red face and a "don't – you – dare – to – argue – with – me – sir" air. Mr. Muskett, on the other hand, was tall and lean with lantern jaws, a sallow complexion and a white beard. Mr. Tuddenham's clothes fitted him like a glove; Mr. Muskett's hung in despairing folds about his person. Mr. Tuddenham wore a high collar, which cut viciously into his red neck; Mr. Muskett's neckwear was nonconformist in cut. Mr. Tuddenham glared at the world through fierce, bloodshot eyes; Mr. Muskett gazed weakly over the top of a pair of pince-nez that hung at one side. Mr. Muskett's voice was an overpowering boom, contrasting oddly with the thin, high-pitched notes of Mr. Tuddenham. Mr. Tuddenham was as upright as a bantam; Mr. Muskett drooped like a wilted lily. No one had ever seen Mr. Muskett without Mr. Tuddenham, or Mr. Tuddenham without Mr. Muskett.
Alice appeared to have considerable difficulty over their names, during which Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty stood pretending not to be aware of the presence of the new arrivals. Eventually Alice nodded reassuringly and, taking a step into the room, announced:
"Mr. Muddenham and Mr. Tuskett."
"Tuddenham, girl, Tuddenham!" shrieked Mr. Tuddenham.
"Muskett, I said, Muskett!" boomed Mr. Muskett.
For a moment Alice regarded them with some apprehension, then her face broke into a smile and, with a sideways nod of her head in the direction of the new guests and a jerk of her thumb, she turned laughing to the door, giving a backward kick of mirth as she went out.
The guests now began to arrive thick and fast.
Miss Torkington brought her tow-coloured hair and pince-nez, and a manner that seemed to shout virtue and chastity. She was all action and vivacity, and nothing could dam the flow of her words, just as none could have convinced her that in her pale-blue princess-robe with its high collar she was not the dernière crie.
Mrs. Bindle had taken up her position near the door, so that she might correct Alice, should occasion arise.
"The butcher and 'is missus," announced Alice.
"Alice, Alice!" protested Mrs. Bindle in a loud whisper. "You mustn't announce people like that. You should say Mr. and Mrs. Gash."
"I asked 'im, mum," protested Alice, "and that's wot 'e said."
Mrs. Bindle looked anxiously from Mr. Gash, in a check suit and red tie, to his wife in a royal blue short skirt, a pink blouse and white boots with tassels. They smiled good-humouredly. Mrs. Bindle sighed her relief.
Mrs. Bindle decided that it would be wise to leave Alice to her own devices. She knew something of the temper of the outraged domestic. In consequence Alice announced without rebuke Mr. Hippitt as "Mr. Pip-Pip," and Mrs. Muspratt as "Miss Musk-Rat."
Presently her voice was heard without raised in angry reproaches.
"What's your name?" she was heard to demand. "I got to call it out."
"No, you don't, Ruthie dear," was the reply.
Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle exchanged glances. They recognised that voice.
"You leggo, I ain't one of them sort," said the voice of Bindle.
"You ain't goin' in till you give me your name, so there!" was Alice's retort.
The guests focused their attention upon the door. Suddenly it opened a foot and then crashed to again.
"Ah! thought you'd got through, didn't you?" they heard Alice cry triumphantly.
Suddenly the door opened again and Bindle entered with Alice striving to restrain him.
"Now, Ruthie, I'm married; if I wasn't, well, anythink might 'appen. Look! 'ere's my coat and 'at, so don't say I 'aven't trusted you. 'Ere, leggo!"
Bindle made an impressive figure in his evening clothes, patent boots, a large "diamond" stud in the centre of his shirt, a geranium in his button-hole, and a red silk handkerchief tucked in the opening of his waistcoat.
"'Ullo, 'Earty!" he cried genially. "'Ere, call 'er orf," indicating Alice with a jerk of his thumb. "Seems to 'ave taken a fancy to me – an' she ain't the first neither," he added.
Mrs. Bindle motioned to Alice to free Bindle, which she did reluctantly.
Bindle looked round the room with interest.
"This the little lot, 'Earty?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper audible to all. "Don't look a very cheer-o crowd, do they? The idea of goin' to 'eaven seems to make 'em low-spirited."
Bindle regarded Mr. MacFie intently, then turning to Mr. Muskett, who happened to be standing near him, he remarked:
"Can't you see 'im in a night-shirt with wings and an 'arp, a-flutterin' about like a little canary. Wonderful place, 'eaven, sir," said Bindle, looking up at Mr. Muskett.
"Sir!" boomed Mr. Muskett.
Bindle started back, then recovering himself and, leaning forward slightly, he said:
"Do you mind doin' that again, sir, jest to see if I can stand it without jumping."
Mr. Muskett glared at him, swung round on his heel and joined Mr. Tuddenham at the other end of the room.
"Seem to 'ave trod on 'is toes," muttered Bindle as he watched Mr. Muskett obviously explaining to Mr. Tuddenham the insult to which he had just been subjected.
Bindle looked about him with interest, the only guest who seemed thoroughly comfortable and at home. Suddenly his eye caught sight of the text above the refreshment-table, and he grinned broadly. Looking about him for someone to share the joke, he took a step towards his nearest neighbour, Miss Torkington.
"Ain't 'e a knock-out!" he remarked, nudging her with his elbow.
"I beg your pardon!" said Miss Torkington, lifting her chin and folding her hands before her.
"'Im, 'Earty," said Bindle, "ain't 'e a knock-out! Look at that! 'So shall Ye All Likewise Perish,'" he read. "Fancy sticking that up over the grub."
Miss Torkington, her hands still folded before her, with head in the air, wheeled round and walked away in what she conceived to be a dignified manner.
Bindle slowly turned and watched her.
"Quaint old bird," he muttered. "I wonder wot I said to 'urt 'er feelin's."
The glee-party of four had formed up near the harmonium. Mr. Hearty was in earnest conversation with the leader. He wished to see Lady Knob-Kerrick's arrival heralded with appropriate music. The leader of the singers was a man whose serious visage convinced Mr. Hearty that to him might safely be left the selection of "the extra" that was to welcome the patroness of the occasion. Mr. Hearty was unaware that in the leader's heart was a smouldering anger against Lady Knob-Kerrick on account of her rudeness in the recent correspondence that had taken place. Furthermore, he had already received his fee.
"Hi, 'Earty!" Bindle called to Mr. Hearty as he left the leader of the glee-party. "When's the Ole Bird comin'?"
Mr. Hearty turned. "The old bird?" he interrogated with lifted eyebrows.
"Lady Knob-Kerrick," bawled Alice, throwing open the door with a flourish.
Lady Knob-Kerrick sailed into the room, her head held high in supercilious superiority. Following her came her companion, Miss Strint, who had carried self-suppression and toadyism to the point of inspiration. Immediately behind came John, Lady Knob-Kerrick's footman, bearing before him the illuminated address, the purse containing fifty Treasury pound notes, and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.
Bindle started clapping vigorously. Two or three other guests followed suit; but the look Lady Knob-Kerrick cast about her proved to them conclusively that Bindle had done the wrong thing.
"It is most kind of your ladyship to come." Mr. Hearty fussed about Lady Knob-Kerrick, walking deprecatingly upon his toes. She appeared entirely oblivious of his presence. He turned towards the harmonium and made frantic signals to the leader of the glee-party. Suddenly the quartette broke into song, every word ringing out clearly and distinctly:
There's the blue eye and the brown eye, the grave eye and the sad,
There's the pink eye and the green eye and the eye that's rolling mad;
But of all the eyes that eye me, be they merciful or bad,
The eye that I would choose is what they call "The Glad."
THE GLAD EYE.
The last line was rolled out sonorously by the bass.
The company looked at one another in amazement. Lady Knob-Kerrick, scarlet with rage, glared through her lorgnettes at the singers and then at Mr. Hearty, who from where he stood petrified gazed wonderingtly at the glee-party. Mrs. Bindle, with great presence of mind, moved swiftly across the room, and caught the falsetto by the lapel of the coat just as he had opened his mouth to begin his solo verse, dealing with the knowledge acquired by a flapper from the country in the course of a fortnight's holiday in London. Mrs. Bindle made it clear to the leader that as far as the Alton Road Chapel was concerned he was indulging in an optical delusion.