PAGE 7
His Evening Out
by
“No,” answered Miss Dorton. “Now I come to think of it, he has always hitherto put up with Mrs. Meadows.”
“You will find the lady down at Fingest,” I says, “sitting opposite him and enjoying a recherche dinner for two.”
The guv’nor slaps me on the back, and lifts Miss Dorton out of her chair.
“You get on back,” he says, “and telephone to Miss Bulstrode. I’ll be round at half-past twelve.”
Miss Dorton went out in a dazed sort of condition, and the guv’nor gives me a sovereign, and tells me I can have the rest of the day to myself.
Mr. Condor, Junior, considers that what happened subsequently goes to prove that he was right more than it proves that he was wrong.
Mr. Condor, Junior, also promised to send us a photograph of himself for reproduction, but, unfortunately, up to the time of going to press it had not arrived.
* * *
From Mrs. Meadows, widow of the late Corporal John Meadows, V.C., Turberville, Bucks, the following further particulars were obtained by our local representative:
I have done for Mr. Parable now for some years past, my cottage being only a mile off, which makes it easy for me to look after him.
Mr. Parable likes the place to be always ready so that he can drop in when he chooses, he sometimes giving me warning and sometimes not. It was about the end of last month–on a Friday, if I remember rightly–that he suddenly turned up.
As a rule, he walks from Henley station, but on this occasion he arrived in a fly, he having a young woman with him, and she having a bag–his cook, as he explained to me. As a rule, I do everything for Mr. Parable, sleeping in the cottage when he is there; but to tell the truth, I was glad to see her. I never was much of a cook myself, as my poor dead husband has remarked on more than one occasion, and I don’t pretend to be. Mr. Parable added, apologetic like, that he had been suffering lately from indigestion.
“I am only too pleased to see her,” I says. “There are the two beds in my room, and we shan’t quarrel.” She was quite a sensible young woman, as I had judged from the first look at her, though suffering at the time from a cold. She hires a bicycle from Emma Tidd, who only uses it on a Sunday, and, taking a market basket, off she starts for Henley, Mr. Parable saying he would go with her to show her the way.
They were gone a goodish time, which, seeing it’s eight miles, didn’t so much surprise me; and when they got back we all three had dinner together, Mr. Parable arguing that it made for what he called “labour saving.” Afterwards I cleared away, leaving them talking together; and later on they had a walk round the garden, it being a moonlight night, but a bit too cold for my fancy.
In the morning I had a chat with her before he was down. She seemed a bit worried.
“I hope people won’t get talking,” she says. “He would insist on my coming.”
“Well,” I says, “surely a gent can bring his cook along with him to cook for him. And as for people talking, what I always say is, one may just as well give them something to talk about and save them the trouble of making it up.”
“If only I was a plain, middle-aged woman,” she says, “it would be all right.”
“Perhaps you will be, all in good time,” I says, but, of course, I could see what she was driving at. A nice, clean, pleasant-faced young woman she was, and not of the ordinary class. “Meanwhile,” I says, “if you don’t mind taking a bit of motherly advice, you might remember that your place is the kitchen, and his the parlour. He’s a dear good man, I know, but human nature is human nature, and it’s no good pretending it isn’t.”