Reginald | Page 4

knew that my
point was gained. He was debating what tie would go with which
waistcoat.
Even then I had my misgivings.
* * *
During the drive to the McKillops' Reginald was possessed with a great
peace, which was not wholly to be accounted for by the fact that he had
inveigled his feet into shoes a size too small for them. I misgave more
than ever, and having once launched Reginald on to the McKillops'
lawn, I established him near a seductive dish of marrons glaces, and as
far from the Archdeacon's wife as possible; as I drifted away to a
diplomatic distance I heard with painful distinctness the eldest Mawkby
girl asking him if he had seen San Toy.
It must have been ten minutes later, not more, and I had been having
QUITE an enjoyable chat with my hostess, and had promised to lend
her The Eternal City and my recipe for rabbit mayonnaise, and was just
about to offer a kind home for her third Persian kitten, when I
perceived, out of the corner of my eye, that Reginald was not where I
had left him, and that the marrons glaces were untasted. At the same
moment I became aware that old Colonel Mendoza was essaying to tell
his classic story of how he introduced golf into India, and that Reginald
was in dangerous proximity. There are occasions when Reginald is
caviare to the Colonel.
"When I was at Poona in '76" -
"My dear Colonel," purred Reginald, "fancy admitting such a thing!
Such a give-away for one's age! I wouldn't admit being on this planet in
'76." (Reginald in his wildest lapses into veracity never admits to being
more than twenty- two.)
The Colonel went to the colour of a fig that has attained great ripeness,

and Reginald, ignoring my efforts to intercept him, glided away to
another part of the lawn. I found him a few minutes later happily
engaged in teaching the youngest Rampage boy the approved theory of
mixing absinthe, within full earshot of his mother. Mrs. Rampage
occupies a prominent place in local Temperance movements.
As soon as I had broken up this unpromising tete-a-tete and settled
Reginald where he could watch the croquet players losing their tempers,
I wandered off to find my hostess and renew the kitten negotiations at
the point where they had been interrupted. I did not succeed in running
her down at once, and eventually it was Mrs. McKillop who sought me
out, and her conversation was not of kittens.
"Your cousin is discussing Zaza with the Archdeacon's wife; at least,
he is discussing, she is ordering her carriage."
She spoke in the dry, staccato tone of one who repeats a French
exercise, and I knew that as far as Millie McKillop was concerned,
Wumples was devoted to a lifelong celibacy.
"If you don't mind," I said hurriedly, "I think we'd like our carriage
ordered too," and I made a forced march in the direction of the
croquet-ground.
I found everyone talking nervously and feverishly of the weather and
the war in South Africa, except Reginald, who was reclining in a
comfortable chair with the dreamy, far-away look that a volcano might
wear just after it had desolated entire villages. The Archdeacon's wife
was buttoning up her gloves with a concentrated deliberation that was
fearful to behold. I shall have to treble my subscription to her Cheerful
Sunday Evenings Fund before I dare set foot in her house again.
At that particular moment the croquet players finished their game,
which had been going on without a symptom of finality during the
whole afternoon. Why, I ask, should it have stopped precisely when a
counter-attraction was so necessary? Everyone seemed to drift towards
the area of disturbance, of which the chairs of the Archdeacon's wife
and Reginald formed the storm-centre. Conversation flagged, and there

settled upon the company that expectant hush that precedes the dawn--
when your neighbours don't happen to keep poultry.
"What did the Caspian Sea?" asked Reginald, with appalling
suddenness.
There were symptoms of a stampede. The Archdeacon's wife looked at
me. Kipling or someone has described somewhere the look a foundered
camel gives when the caravan moves on and leaves it to its fate. The
peptonised reproach in the good lady's eyes brought the passage vividly
to my mind.
I played my last card.
"Reginald, it's getting late, and a sea-mist is coming on." I knew that
the elaborate curl over his right eyebrow was not guaranteed to survive
a sea-mist.
"Never, never again, will I take you to a garden-party. Never . . . You
behaved abominably . . . What did the Caspian see?"
A shade of genuine regret for misused opportunities passed over
Reginald's face.
"After all," he said, "I believe