a girl help but love a man who could lift my brother George right down a whole flight of stairs with a single kick?'
Ignatius' face clouded.
'George! That reminds me. Cyprian said you said I was like George.'
'Oh! I didn't mean him to repeat that.'
'Well, he did,' said Ignatius moodily. 'And the thought was agony.'
'But I only meant that you and George were both always playing the ukulele. And I hate ukuleles.'
Ignatius' face cleared.
'I will give mine to the poor this afternoon. And, touching Cyprian . . . George said you said I reminded you of him.'
She hastened to soothe him.
'It's only the way you dress. You both wear such horrid sloppy clothes.'
Ignatius folded her in his arms once more.
'You shall take me this very instant to the best tailor in London,' he said. 'Give me a minute to put on my boots, and I'll be with you. You don't mind if I just step in at my tobacconist's for a moment on the way? I have a large order for him.'
3 THE STORY OF CEDRIC
I have heard it said that the cosy peace which envelops the bar-parlour of the Angler's Rest has a tendency to promote in the regular customers a certain callousness and indifference to human suffering. I fear there is something in the charge. We who have made the place our retreat sit sheltered in a backwater far removed from the rushing stream of Life. We may be dimly aware that out in the world there are hearts that ache and bleed: but we order another gin and ginger and forget about them. Tragedy, to us, has come to mean merely the occasional flatness of a bottle of beer.
Nevertheless, this crust of selfish detachment can be cracked. And when Mr Mulliner entered on this Sunday evening and announced that Miss Postlethwaite, our gifted and popular barmaid, had severed her engagement to Alfred Lukyn, the courteous assistant at the Bon Ton Drapery Stores in the High Street, it is not too much to say that we were stunned.
'But it's only half an hour ago,' we cried, 'that she went off to meet him in her best black satin with the lovelight in her eyes. They were going to church together.'
'They never reached the sacred edifice,' said Mr Mulliner, sighing and taking a grave sip of hot Scotch and lemon. 'The estrangement occurred directly they met. The rock on which the frail craft of Love split was the fact that Alfred Lukyn was wearing yellow shoes.'
'Yellow shoes?'
'Yellow shoes,' said Mr Mulliner, 'of a singular brightness. These came under immediate discussion. Miss Postlethwaite, a girl of exquisite sensibility and devoutness, argued that to attend evensong in shoes like that was disrespectful to the Vicar. The blood of the Lukyns is hot, and Alfred, stung, retorted that he had paid sixteen shillings and eightpence for them and that the Vicar could go and boil his head. The ring then changed hands and arrangements were put in train for the return of all gifts and correspondence.'
'Just a lovers' tiff.'
'Let us hope so.'
A thoughtful silence fell upon the bar-parlour. Mr Mulliner was the first to break it.
'Strange,' he said, coming out of his reverie, 'to what diverse ends Fate will employ the same instrument. Here we have two loving hearts parted by a pair of yellow shoes. Yet in the case of my cousin Cedric it was a pair of yellow shoes that brought him a bride. These things work both ways.'
To say that I ever genuinely liked my cousin Cedric (said Mr Mulliner) would be paltering with the truth. He was not a man of whom many men were fond. Even as a boy he gave evidence of being about to become what eventually he did become – one of those neat, prim, fussy, precise, middle-aged bachelors who are so numerous in the neighbourhood of St James Street. It is a type I have never liked, and Cedric, in addition to being neat, prim, fussy and precise, was also one of London's leading snobs.
For the rest, he lived in comfortable rooms at the Albany, where between the hours of
Ignatius' face clouded.
'George! That reminds me. Cyprian said you said I was like George.'
'Oh! I didn't mean him to repeat that.'
'Well, he did,' said Ignatius moodily. 'And the thought was agony.'
'But I only meant that you and George were both always playing the ukulele. And I hate ukuleles.'
Ignatius' face cleared.
'I will give mine to the poor this afternoon. And, touching Cyprian . . . George said you said I reminded you of him.'
She hastened to soothe him.
'It's only the way you dress. You both wear such horrid sloppy clothes.'
Ignatius folded her in his arms once more.
'You shall take me this very instant to the best tailor in London,' he said. 'Give me a minute to put on my boots, and I'll be with you. You don't mind if I just step in at my tobacconist's for a moment on the way? I have a large order for him.'
3 THE STORY OF CEDRIC
I have heard it said that the cosy peace which envelops the bar-parlour of the Angler's Rest has a tendency to promote in the regular customers a certain callousness and indifference to human suffering. I fear there is something in the charge. We who have made the place our retreat sit sheltered in a backwater far removed from the rushing stream of Life. We may be dimly aware that out in the world there are hearts that ache and bleed: but we order another gin and ginger and forget about them. Tragedy, to us, has come to mean merely the occasional flatness of a bottle of beer.
Nevertheless, this crust of selfish detachment can be cracked. And when Mr Mulliner entered on this Sunday evening and announced that Miss Postlethwaite, our gifted and popular barmaid, had severed her engagement to Alfred Lukyn, the courteous assistant at the Bon Ton Drapery Stores in the High Street, it is not too much to say that we were stunned.
'But it's only half an hour ago,' we cried, 'that she went off to meet him in her best black satin with the lovelight in her eyes. They were going to church together.'
'They never reached the sacred edifice,' said Mr Mulliner, sighing and taking a grave sip of hot Scotch and lemon. 'The estrangement occurred directly they met. The rock on which the frail craft of Love split was the fact that Alfred Lukyn was wearing yellow shoes.'
'Yellow shoes?'
'Yellow shoes,' said Mr Mulliner, 'of a singular brightness. These came under immediate discussion. Miss Postlethwaite, a girl of exquisite sensibility and devoutness, argued that to attend evensong in shoes like that was disrespectful to the Vicar. The blood of the Lukyns is hot, and Alfred, stung, retorted that he had paid sixteen shillings and eightpence for them and that the Vicar could go and boil his head. The ring then changed hands and arrangements were put in train for the return of all gifts and correspondence.'
'Just a lovers' tiff.'
'Let us hope so.'
A thoughtful silence fell upon the bar-parlour. Mr Mulliner was the first to break it.
'Strange,' he said, coming out of his reverie, 'to what diverse ends Fate will employ the same instrument. Here we have two loving hearts parted by a pair of yellow shoes. Yet in the case of my cousin Cedric it was a pair of yellow shoes that brought him a bride. These things work both ways.'
To say that I ever genuinely liked my cousin Cedric (said Mr Mulliner) would be paltering with the truth. He was not a man of whom many men were fond. Even as a boy he gave evidence of being about to become what eventually he did become – one of those neat, prim, fussy, precise, middle-aged bachelors who are so numerous in the neighbourhood of St James Street. It is a type I have never liked, and Cedric, in addition to being neat, prim, fussy and precise, was also one of London's leading snobs.
For the rest, he lived in comfortable rooms at the Albany, where between the hours of
Similar Books
