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Page 45
'Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles? I do.'
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Yes. Do you know the capital of Madagascar?'
Mike, as crimson as the beef he was attacking, said he did not.
'I do.'
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Who was the first king--'
'You mustn't worry Mr Jackson, Teddy,' said Mr Waller, with a touch of
pride in his voice, as who should say 'There are not many boys of his
age, I can tell you, who _could_ worry you with questions like
that.'
'No, no, he likes it,' said Psmith, unnecessarily. 'He likes it. I
always hold that much may be learned by casual chit-chat across the
dinner-table. I owe much of my own grasp of--'
'I bet _you_ don't know what's the capital of Madagascar,'
interrupted Mike rudely.
'I do,' said Edward. 'I can tell you the kings of Israel?' he added,
turning to Mike. He seemed to have no curiosity as to the extent of
Psmith's knowledge. Mike's appeared to fascinate him.
Mike helped himself to beetroot in moody silence.
His mouth was full when Comrade Prebble asked him a question. Comrade
Prebble, as has been pointed out in an earlier part of the narrative,
was a good chap, but had no roof to his mouth.
'I beg your pardon?' said Mike.
Comrade Prebble repeated his observation. Mike looked helplessly at
Psmith, but Psmith's eyes were on his plate.
Mike felt he must venture on some answer.
'No,' he said decidedly.
Comrade Prebble seemed slightly taken aback. There was an awkward
pause. Then Mr Waller, for whom his fellow Socialist's methods of
conversation held no mysteries, interpreted.
'The mustard, Prebble? Yes, yes. Would you mind passing Prebble the
mustard, Mr Jackson?'
'Oh, sorry,' gasped Mike, and, reaching out, upset the water-jug into
the open jam-tart.
Through the black mist which rose before his eyes as he leaped to his
feet and stammered apologies came the dispassionate voice of Master
Edward Waller reminding him that mustard was first introduced into Peru
by Cortez.
His host was all courtesy and consideration. He passed the matter off
genially. But life can never be quite the same after you have upset a
water-jug into an open jam-tart at the table of a comparative stranger.
Mike's nerve had gone. He ate on, but he was a broken man.
At the other end of the table it became gradually apparent that things
were not going on altogether as they should have done. There was a sort
of bleakness in the atmosphere. Young Mr Richards was looking like a
stuffed fish, and the face of Mr Waller's niece was cold and set.
'Why, come, come, Ada,' said Mr Waller, breezily, 'what's the matter?
You're eating nothing. What's George been saying to you?' he added
jocularly.
'Thank you, uncle Robert,' replied Ada precisely, 'there's nothing the
matter. Nothing that Mr Richards can say to me can upset me.'
'Mr Richards!' echoed Mr Waller in astonishment. How was he to know
that, during the walk back from church, the world had been transformed,
George had become Mr Richards, and all was over?
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