she will hunt with the West Somerset Harriers this coming season.
Captain Bennett Dislocates his Thumb
Captain Bennett dislocated his thumb at cricket to-day, and is hors de combat for the rest of the match. When he came back with the songs this afternoon he was suffering such pain that he asked me if I would mind putting on a fresh bandage for him. I told him that the sight of blood always made me faint, but he assured me the skin was not broken, so I took off the old bandage and put on a new one. It seemed to give him great relief, and he said I would make a splendid nurse, and looked at me with that queer blue fire look his eyes always have, when their expression is not as timid as a bashful boy's. He is awfully stupid at conversation, and one has to do all the talking. I asked him if they fed him properly at the Club, for he always looked so hungry whenever I met him. He replied that he was literally starving, but that nothing so material as food would satisfy his hunger, and that blue fire look came back into his eyes.
Captain Bennett in Delirium
I thought he was becoming delirious from the pain of his thumb, and I begged him to go home and send for the doctor. Then he did so strange a thing that I am sure it was done in delirium; he asked me to feel how fast his pulse was beating—it went tick-tock like a Waterbury watch—and he put his arm with the bad thumb round my waist, and called me an angel in the back of his throat and was hot all over. So I knew he had fever. I wasn't a bit afraid, for I have wonderful presence of mind, as you know. I have been told it is best to humour people in delirium, so I said I was sure I was an angel, for everybody told me so, and that if he would kindly stop crushing the jet spangles on my cream-coloured crepon bodice I would act like an angel to him. He instantly obeyed, and I rose and rang for James and told him that Captain Bennett was too ill to ride back to Taunton. Whereupon, before I could finish speaking, James asked if he should tell Perkins to get ready the brougham or dog-cart, and if I thought a glass of barley-water would do Captain Bennett good.
An Ideal Servant
Such a treasure, James. Really an ideal servant; knows exactly what one wants without one's having the trouble to order it. I can't understand how Lord Froom parted with him.
Monsieur Malorme
Just then Monsieur Malorme, whom the Blaines have engaged to talk French with Bertie before he joins the Embassy in Paris, came over with a note from Blanche asking me to a garden party on Saturday. I made Captain Bennett drink the barley-water, which I think must have done him good, because he sat very quiet till James came to say Perkins was ready. Monsieur Malorme is a very good-looking young man for a Frenchman, almost as good-looking as Captain Bennett; he has beautiful teeth and hands, but a horrid way of looking out of his eyes, as if he had just winked at you. He is a Provençal and quite a gentleman; Blanche said they felt obliged to have him eat with them, for he was very superior and accustomed to the best society. When he was coaching the Duke of FitzArthur he always followed the Melton Mowbray pack, and took the Dowager Duchess in to dinner when the family were alone.
I found him quite entertaining and he made Captain Bennett laugh quite naturally, so I knew the barley-water had acted, and I said so. I told Captain Bennett that I would send a groom into Taunton with his horse, and he could take that opportunity to return the rest of my songs, if he had done with them. When he went away, he gave me such a blue fire look and squeezed my hand so horridly that I thought he was going to be delirious again.
Remembering what Blanche had said of Monsieur Malorme's superiority, I took an interest in his pursuits, asked him how long he had been in England, what he thought of our customs, and if he found Bertie an apt pupil. He replied that he had been a year in England, that he found life in Grosvenor Square plus ravissante qu'à Paris, and that the English women were comme les volcanes ayant leurs cimes dans la neige, and that Bairtee was précoce, which I knew was a horrid French lie, for you know it is only because Mrs. Blaine's uncle is in the Cabinet that Bertie, whose chin and forehead seem to be racing to see which can get away from the other the fastest, ever got that secretaryship in the Rue St. Honoré.
The Phonograph
James brought in whiskey and soda and cigarettes, and Monsieur Malorme, who is really quite amusing, became communicative. He assured me that Daisy Blaine was something for which there seems to be no word in French, for he substituted as an equivalent a gesture made by putting the thumb and forefinger to the lips and wafting a kiss into the air. I also gathered that he was at work on a French-English grammar, which was to revolutionise all methods of teaching at present in vogue. It seems that Monsieur Malorme speaks the grammar into phonographs, and one buys the phonograph instead of the book. Lord St. Noodle is quite delighted with the idea, and has promised to speak into the phonograph before the grammar begins; and Monsieur Malorme hopes to persuade the French Ambassador and the Chancellor of the Exchequer to recommend it in the same way. To overcome the difficulty of speaking into each phonograph separately, Monsieur Malorme proposes to hire a room and fill it with phonographs, so that all will catch the voice at the same time. He grew quite farouche over it, and let one of my Bohemian goblets, which contained his whiskey and soda, fall and break. And he looked at me like Captain Bennett when the delirium was coming on, so I excused myself as having to dress for dinner, and left James to show him out. I expect to hear from you at Heaviland Manor to-morrow. I feel sure Lord Valmond will follow you, for he has a place near, which makes the excuse very plausible.—Your dearest Mamma.
LETTER V
Monk's Folly, 5th August
Darling Elizabeth:
The Dinner-party
Last night Lady Beatrice gave a dinner for the Parkers. I wore the blue brocade with the Peter Lely bodice, and that odious Mr. Rumple took me in. I am sure Lady Beatrice decided on it at the last moment to spite me, because she overheard me ask Mr. Frame how such a champion as he liked being beaten by her ladyship every day. Captain Bennett sat on the other side of me and Mr. Frame was opposite, so I devoted myself entirely to them, and left Mr. Rumple to lap up his soup like a horse in a water-trough. Society is falling off terribly now-a-days; we are no longer county but provincial families. I really don't see why because Mr. Rumple is Lady Beatrice's lawyer that she should invite him to dine when she has a party, but of course we have no really smart set down here, and one sends into Taunton for a lawyer or a doctor to fill up a vacant place at a dinner-table, just as one sends in for meat or candles. Mr. Rumple is fat and pasty, and has a beard; his only topics of conversation were the assizes and the war. I asked him why he didn't volunteer, and he looked at me with a Dover to Calais smile, and said what did I think would become of his practice. And I replied, "I believe you are a Pro-Boer, Mr. Rumple." He turned green like a gooseberry, and then purple, and Lady Beatrice cried sharply, "What is that you are, Mr. Rumple?" "Pro-Boer," he faltered, echoing my words, and everybody was upon him at once like a pack of wolves. He isn't really anything of the sort, but a Tory who believes that because Lady Beatrice was a duke's daughter she is part of the Constitution. Algy Chevington says he is a rising man, but I prefer to know such people when the process is complete, for this rising is only another term for moulting, which is decidedly unpleasant to witness in the male species of the respectable middle-class.
In the drawing-room, before the men joined us, Mrs. Parker sang "The Star-Spangled Banner" and "Marching through Georgia," and Lady Beatrice actually joined in the chorus. Mrs. Parker's dress was not made at Paquin's, and she only wore one decent ring. Miss Parker, however, kept up the family's reputation for wealth, and wore ropes of diamonds round her neck, which made poor Lady Beatrice in her black and yellow satin and amethysts look positively dowdy. Mr. Parker père is, I think, inclined to be jovial if he got the chance. He has small bright eyes, and has lost two fingers on his left hand in the course of his "rising" process. He called me madam continually, and asked me if I thought Lady Beatrice would ever marry, which struck me as so absurd that I laughed outright. "Do you want her for your son?" I said. "God forbid!" he replied, and I thought he was going to poke me in the waist with one of the stumps of his right hand.
Lady