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Page 53
"Why yes," I said; "while the ancestors of Eaton-square were running
about in blue paint and bear-skins, and Albert Gate, in the directory,
was a mere cave. What do you suppose," I went on, following up this line
of thought, "when you were untutored savages, was your substitute for
the Red Book?"
"Really," said this Englishman, "I haven't an idea. Perhaps as you have
suggested they had no ad_dresses_."
For a moment I felt quite depressed. "Did you think it was a conundrum?"
I asked. "You so often remind me of _Punch_, Mr. Mafferton."
I shouldn't have liked anyone to say that to me, but it seemed to have
quite a mollifying effect upon Mr. Mafferton. He smiled and pulled his
moustache in the way Englishmen always do, when endeavouring to absorb a
compliment.
"Dear old London," I went on reminiscently, "what a funny experience it
was!"
"To the Transatlantic mind," responded Mr. Mafferton stiffly, "one can
imagine it instructive."
"It was a revelation to mine," I said earnestly--"a revelation." Then,
remembering Mr. Mafferton's somewhat painful connection with the
revelation, I added carefully, "From a historic point of view. The
Tower, you know, and all that."
"Ah!" said Mr. Mafferton, with a distant eye upon the Campagna.
It was really very difficult.
"Do you remember the day we went to Madame Tussaud's?" I asked. Perhaps
my intonation was a little dreamy. "I shall _never_ forget William the
Conqueror--never."
"Yes--yes, I think I do." It was clearly an effort of memory.
"And now," I said regretfully, "it can never be the same again."
"Certainly not." He used quite unnecessary emphasis.
"William and the others having been since destroyed by fire," I
continued. Mr. Mafferton looked foolish. "What a terrible scene that
must have been! Didn't you feel when all that royal wax melted as if the
dynasties of England had been wrecked over again! What effect did it
have on dear old Victoria?"
"One question at a time," said Mr. Mafferton, and I think he smiled.
"Now you remind me of Sandford and Merton," I said, "and a place for
everything and everything in its place. And punctuality is the thief of
time. And many others."
"You haven't got it _quite_ right," said Mr. Mafferton with incipient
animation. "May I correct you? 'Procrastination,' not 'punctuality.'"
"Thanks," I said. I could not help observing that for quite five minutes
Mr. Mafferton had made no effort to overhear the conversation between
Mr. Dod and Miss Portheris. It was a trifle, but life is made up of
little things.
"I don't believe we adorn our conversation with proverbs in America as
much as we did," I continued. "I guess it takes too long. If you make
use of a proverb you see, you've got to allow for reflection first, and
reflection afterwards, and a sigh, and very few of us have time for
that. It is one of our disadvantages."
Mr. Mafferton heard me with attention.
"Really!" he said in quite his old manner when we used to discuss
Presidential elections and peanuts and other features of life in my
republic. "That is a fact of some interest--but I see you cling to one
little Americanism, Miss Wick. Do you remember"--he actually looked
arch--"once assuring me that you intended to abandon the verb to
'guess'?"
"I don't know why we should leave all the good words to Shakespeare," I
said, "but I was under a great many hallucinations about the American
language in England, and I daresay I did."
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