him when I was in town at a party, where he and I were about the only grown-ups; he took a good deal of trouble over the youngsters, doing conjuring tricks to amuse them, and singing songs at the pianoforte that made them laugh. Later in the evening, when some of the kids had been fetched, he and I became friendly, and we had a most interesting chat. He agreed with my views regarding the Australian team of the previous summer; he was in full sympathy concerning the difficulty of making one pair of white gloves do for two evenings. I asked for his name and address.
“Don't think I have a card to spare, old chap,” he said, in his easy way. “Daresay we shall meet again.”
“I'd awfully like to make sure of it,” I said. “My mother may want you to run down to our place.”
“That's a different matter. Here's a pencil; write it on something. Or allow me. I'm coming back here at ten,” he went on. “You won't be gone before that, I hope?”
“I must,” I replied. “My governess will call at half-past nine to take me home.”
“What an existence we men about town do live, to be sure. Always hurrying from one place to another.”
“If my mother writes to you, Mr. Cartwright,” I said, offering my hand, “you won't fail to come along.”
My mater is peculiar; she has a fixed and permanent idea that any suggestion coming from me must necessarily be overruled and treated as of no serious importance; I fancy this comes from the feeling, often expressed by her, that she has to be both father and mother. It is rather a lonely life for her, with only my governess and the servants for company. I have heard the maids saying more than once to each other that they wondered mistress did not marry again. “She could well afford to,” remarked cook.
I do think I showed cleverness and tact—something very like high diplomacy. I reminded my mother of the parties I had attended, and said I felt glad there was no necessity for us to have our house turned upside down and to give an evening in return. At lunch time I referred to the matter again. Later I said good-night to her, and once more made similar allusion to the subject.
Cards of invitation went out the next day, and my governess started on the preparation of a charade. My governess is not, if I may say so, possessed of incredible cleverness, and after writing out the charade and starting rehearsals, she found she had forgotten the word, and as no one could guess it, and she appeared unable to think of another, it became evident that we could not rely upon this as a source of entertainment. It was then I announced to my mother that I had already sent a note to a friend of mine, a man whose equal for entertaining a party was rarely encountered, and that I expected a reply from him in the course of a post or two. She blamed me for taking the step without asking permission, and praised me for coming to the rescue with such an excellent idea.
“Did you say Cartwright—Mr. Cartwright, dear?”
“Yes, mother. Do you know him?”
“I don't think I have met the name.”
When Mr. Cartwright's postcard arrived, and the maid put it by the side of my plate, my mother, glancing down the table before opening her own letters, asked quickly from whom it had come, and when I told her she contradicted me, quoting, rather excitedly, the usual Biblical and historical cases where severe punishment had been given for the telling of lies, or commendation awarded for the statement of exact truth. I ventured to repeat the information, and passed the card to her as a document in support; she looked at it, cried a little, and asked me to forgive her for being so cross. I begged her not to mention it.
“Just for the moment,” she explained, “it took me back about twelve years.”
“Before my time, mother?”
“Yes. You were not thought of then. Does your friend sign himself Cartwright?”
“My dear mother, how else could he sign himself?”
“Send him another line, and say that your mother is looking forward to the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”
“You must tell me how to spell some of the words,” I said.