NE morning not long ago a gentleman was engaged in killing worms in the gardens of Berkeley Square, when it was forced on his attention that he had a pain. The pain, which was temporarily offensive, was in his side; but thinking at first that it was no more than a stitch, he dismissed it from his mind as a pain unworthy of the notice of an officer and a gentleman, and went on killing worms according to the directions on the tin. This was a large tin, and held at an angle in the gentleman’s right hand, a white powder issued therefrom and covered the pretty blades of grass, the while with his left hand he maneuvered a syringe in such a way that a brownish liquid was sprayed upon the ground. An entirely new and nasty smell was thus brought into the world; nor did there appear to be any such good reason for it as is generally brought forward on behalf of a smell, such as industry, agriculture, the culinary necessities of certain foods, or the general progress of civilization. However, mean though our gentleman’s physical position was, for he had to bend low so that not a blade of grass should escape his eagle eye, mentally he took his stand on a lofty ideal, and dismissing the stares of passers-by as unworthy of the notice of an officer and a gentleman, continued to misbehave according to the directions on the tin.
The chemist who had sold him the tin and the syringe had sworn a pharmaceutical oath to the effect that on sprinkling the grass with the powder and spraying it with the lotion, not a worm in Mayfair but would instantly arise from the bowels of the earth, powder its nose, inhale the scent, and die. Nor was the chemist’s prophecy in vain, for My Lord—this story is about a lord—had not been powdering and spraying for long when behold, a multitude of worms arose and passed away peacefully! Indeed, so great was the massacre that a Turkish gentleman who was passing by stood at attention during a five minutes’ silence—but that is quite by the way and has nothing to do with George Tarlyon’s pain, which was growing more offensive with every moment. He thought, however, that it was but an attack of lumbago, and dismissing it from his mind as a pain unworthy of the notice of an officer and a gentleman, went on killing worms because he wanted to stand well with a pretty girl he had met the night before at a party, who had said she was a socialist and that there were too many worms in Mayfair.
Major Cypress now enters the story, and the fact that this is a true story makes it all the more regrettable that therein the Major is presented in a tedious, not to say a revolting, light. Poor Hugo! About a year before these happenings, he had married Lord Tarlyon’s little sister Shirley, and lo, this morning he was looking so depressed that as he crossed the Square to the gardens, a taxi-driver in a hurry had not the heart to run him over! It will be delaying the story less than may seem apparent to readers of an impatient temper, if we now talk for a while of Hugo and Shirley. Shirley was a darling, and Hugo had no money above that which he earned, which was nothing; wherefore they lived in a garage in the Mews behind Berkeley Square, had breakfast late, went out for dinner and on to supper. The garage, however, was delightful. Shirley herself had supervised the builders, decorators and plumbers; and by the time rooms had been added, kitchens hollowed out, bathrooms punched in—by the time, in fact, the garage had been converted into a house, it had cost Hugo more borrow2d money than the lease of a mansion in Berkeley Square. Poor Hugo!
Every morning at about this hour he would emerge from the garage into the Mews, pat his tie straight in the gleaming flanks of the automobiles that were being washed to the accompaniment of song and rushing water, pass the time of day with a chauffeur or two, and walk into Berkeley Square, where, in the pursuit of his profession, he would loiter grimly by the railings of the gardens until the clocks struck twelve. The word “profession” in connection with Major Cypress doubtless needs some explanation. Hugo’s profession was the most ancient in the world bar none, that of an inheritor: he was waiting for his father to die.
All doctors are agreed that waiting has a lowering effect on the mind; but this morning Major Cypress looked even more depressed than usual. And long he leaned against the railings watching his brother-in-law’s extraordinary behavior before opening his lips; then, a noise of a friendly nature being created, he waited patiently for an answer, which he did not get, and then turned his mind to other things.
“George,” he said at last, “you are behaving in a very peculiar way. What are you doing?”