"It's quite an idea for a Christmas party," said
Lady Blonze; "we must certainly do it here."
Sir Nicholas was not so
enthusiastic. "Are you
quite sure, my dear, that you're wise in doing this
thing?" he said to his wife when they were alone
together. "It might do very well at the Mathesons, where
they had rather a staid,
elderly house-party, but here it
will be a different matter. There is the Durmot flapper,
for
instance, who simply stops at nothing, and you know
what Van Tahn is like. Then there is Cyril Skatterly; he
has
madness on one side of his family and a Hungarian
grandmother on the other."
"I don't see what they could do that would matter,"
said Lady Blonze.
"It's the unknown that is to be dreaded," said Sir
Nicholas. "If Skatterly took it into his head to
represent a Bull of Bashan, well, I'd rather not be
here."
"Of course we shan't allow any Bible
characters.
Besides, I don't know what the Bulls of Bashan really did
that was so very
dreadful; they just came round and
gaped, as far as I remember."
"My dear, you don't know what Skatterly's Hungarian
imagination mightn't read into the part; it would be
small
satisfaction to say to him afterwards: 'You've
behaved as no Bull of Bashan would have behaved.' "
"Oh, you're an alarmist," said Lady Blonze; I
particularly want to have this idea carried out. It will
be sure to be talked about a lot."
"That is quite possible," said Sir Nicholas.
* * * *
Dinner that evening was not a particularly lively
affair; the
strain of
trying to impersonate a self-
imposed
character or to glean hints of
identity from
other people's conduct acted as a check on the natural
festivity of such a
gathering. There was a general
feeling of
gratitude and acquiescence when good-natured
Rachel Klammerstein suggested that there should be an
hour or two's
respite from "the game" while they all
listened to a little piano-playing after dinner.
Rachel's love of piano music was not indiscriminate, and
concentrated itself
chiefly on selections rendered by her
idolised offspring, Moritz and Augusta, who, to do them
justice, played
remarkably well.
The Klammersteins were deservedly popular as
Christmas guests; they gave
expensive gifts
lavishly on
Christmas Day and New Year, and Mrs. Klammerstein had
already dropped hints of her
intention to present the
prize for the best enacted
character in the game
competition. Every one had brightened at this prospect;
if it had fallen to Lady Blonze, as
hostess, to provide
the prize, she would have considered that a little
souvenir of some twenty or twenty-five shillings' value
would meet the case,
whereas coming from a Klammerstein
source it would certainly run to several guineas.
The close time for impersonation efforts came to an
end with the final withdrawal of Moritz and Augusta from
the piano. Blanche Boveal
retired early, leaving the
room in a
series of laboured leaps that she hoped might
be recognised as a tolerable
imitation of Pavlova. Vera
Durmot, the sixteen-year-old flapper, expressed her
confident opinion that the
performance was intended to
typify Mark Twain's famous jumping frog, and her
diagnosis of the case found general
acceptance. Another
guest to set an example of early bed-going was Waldo
Plubley, who conducted his life on a minutely regulated
system of time-tables and hygienic
routine. Waldo was a
plump, indolent young man of seven-and-twenty, whose
mother had early in his life
decided for him that he was
unusually
delicate, and by dint of much coddling and
home-keeping had succeeded in making him
physically soft
and mentally peevish. Nine hours'
unbroken sleep,
preceded by
elaborate breathing exercises and other
hygienic
ritual, was among the
indispensable regulations