FullReads

Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it.

Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don’t know how to describe it, but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do that.

MRS. DOWEY.
‘Kenneth,’ affecting surprise, ‘we have visitors!’

DOWEY.
‘Your servant, ladies.’

He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of Mrs. Mickleham’s retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since you took the countess in to dinner.

MRS. TWYMLEY.
‘We should apologise. We’re not meaning to stay.’

MRS. DOWEY.
‘You are very welcome. Just wait’–the ostentation of this!–’till I get out of my astrakhan–and my muff–and my gloves–and’ (it is the bonnet’s turn now) ‘my Excelsior.’

At last we see her in the merino (a triumph).

MRS. MICKLEHAM.
‘You’ve given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.’

DOWEY.
‘It’s her that has given it to me, missis.’

MRS. DOWEY.
‘Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,’ waggling her fists. ‘The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!’ Vehemently: ‘I swear by God that we had champagny wine.’ There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it means, she has even prepared for it: ‘And to them as doubts my word–here’s the cork.’

She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table.

MRS. MICKLEHAM.
‘I’m sure!’

MRS. TWYMLEY.
‘I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against my Alfred.’

MRS. DOWEY.
‘Me!’

DOWEY.
‘Come, come, ladies,’ in the masterful way that is so hard for women to resist; ‘if you say another word, I’ll kiss the lot of you.’

There is a moment of pleased confusion.

MRS. MICKLEHAM.
‘Really, them sodgers!’

THE HAGGERTY WOMAN.
‘The kilties is the worst!’

MRS. TWYMLEY.
‘I’m sure,’ heartily, ‘we don’t grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.’

DOWEY.
‘Yes, it’s the end,’ with a troubled look at his old lady; ‘I must be off in ten minutes.’

The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door.

MRS. MICKLEHAM.
‘Poor thing! But we must run, for you’ll be having some last words to say to her.’