________________________________________________
_ Reginald slid a carnation of the newest shade into the
buttonhole of his latest lounge coat, and surveyed the result
with approval. "I am just in the mood," he observed, "to
have my portrait painted by someone with an unmistakable
future. So comforting to go down to posterity as 'Youth with
a Pink Carnation' in catalogue--company with 'Child with
Bunch of Primroses,' and all that crowd."
"Youth," said the Other, "should suggest innocence."
"But never act on the suggestion. I don't believe the two
ever really go together. People talk vaguely about the
innocence of a little child, but they take mighty good care
not to let it out of their sight for twenty minutes. The
watched pot never boils over. I knew a boy once who really
was innocent; his parents were in Society, but they never
gave him a moment's anxiety from his infancy. He believed in
company prospectuses, and in the purity of elections, and in
women marrying for love, and even in a system for winning at
roulette. He never quite lost his faith in it, but he
dropped more money than his employers could afford to lose.
When last I heard of him, he was believing in his innocence;
the jury weren't. All the same, I really am innocent just
now of something everyone accuses me of having done, and so
far as I can see, their accusations will remain unfounded."
"Rather an unexpected attitude for you."
"I love people who do unexpected things. Didn't you always
adore the man who slew a lion in a pit on a snowy day? But
about this unfortunate innocence. Well, quite long ago, when
I'd been quarrelling with more people than usual, you among
the number--it must have been in November, I never quarrel
with you too near Christmas--I had an idea that I'd like to
write a book. It was to be a book of personal reminiscences,
and was to leave out nothing."
"Reginald!"
"Exactly what the Duchess said when I mentioned it to her. I
was provoking and said nothing, and the next thing, of
course, was that everyone heard that I'd written the book and
got it in the press. After that, I might have been a gold-
fish in a glass bowl for all the privacy I got. People
attacked me about it in the most unexpected places, and
implored or commanded me to leave out things that I'd
forgotten had ever happened. I sat behind Miriam Klopstock
one night in the dress circle at His Majesty's, and she began
at once about the incident of the Chow dog in the bathroom,
which she insisted must be struck out. We had to argue it in
a disjointed fashion, because some of the people wanted to
listen to the play, and Miriam takes nines in voices. They
had to stop her playing in the 'Macaws' Hockey Club because
you could hear what she thought when her shins got mixed up
in a scrimmage for half a mile on a still day. They are
called the Macaws because of their blue-and-yellow costumes,
but I understand there was nothing yellow about Miriam's
language. I agreed to make one alteration, as I pretended I
had got it a Spitz instead of a Chow, but beyond that I was
firm. She megaphoned back two minutes later, 'You promised
you would never mention it; don't you ever keep a promise?'
When people had stopped glaring in our direction, I replied
that I'd as soon think of keeping white mice. I saw her
tearing little bits out of her programme for a minute or two,
and then she leaned back and snorted, 'You're not the boy I
took you for,' as though she were an eagle arriving at
Olympus with the wrong Ganymede. That was her last audible
remark, but she went on tearing up her programme and
scattering the pieces around her, till one of her neighbours
asked with immense dignity whether she should send for a
wastepaper basket. I didn't stay for the last act."
"Then there is Mrs.--oh, I never can remember her name; she
lives in a street that the cabmen have never heard of, and is
at home on Wednesdays. She frightened me horribly once at a
private view by saying mysteriously, 'I oughtn't to be here,
you know; this is one of my days.' I thought she meant that
she was subject to periodical outbreaks and was expecting an
attack at any moment. So embarrassing if she had suddenly
taken it into her head that she was Cesar Borgia or St.
Elizabeth of Hungary. That sort of thing would make one
unpleasantly conspicuous even at a private view. However,
she merely meant to say that it was Wednesday, which at the
moment was incontrovertible. Well, she's on quite a
different tack to the Klopstock. She doesn't visit anywhere
very extensively, and, of course, she's awfully keen for me
to drag in an incident that occurred at one of the
Beauwhistle garden-parties, when she says she accidentally
hit the shins of a Serene Somebody or other with a croquet
mallet and that he swore at her in German. As a matter of
fact, he went on discoursing on the Gordon-Bennett affair in
French. (I never can remember if it's a new submarine or a
divorce. Of course, how stupid of me!) To be disagreeably
exact, I fancy she missed him by about two inches--over-
anxiousness, probably--but she likes to think she hit him.
I've felt that way with a partridge which I always imagine
keeps on flying strong, out of false pride, till it's the
other side of the hedge. She said she could tell me
everything she was wearing on the occasion. I said I didn't
want my book to read like a laundry list, but she explained
that she didn't mean those sort of things."
"And there's the Chilworth boy, who can be charming as long
as he's content to be stupid and wear what he's told to; but
he gets the idea now and then that he'd like to be
epigrammatic, and the result is like watching a rook trying
to build a nest in a gale. Since he got wind of the book,
he's been persecuting me to work in something of his about
the Russians and the Yalu Peril, and is quite sulky because I
won't do it."
"Altogether, I think it would be rather a brilliant
inspiration if you were to suggest a fortnight in Paris."
THE END.
Reginald, by Saki (Hector Hugh Munro)(H H Munro) _
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