HEN Omi and I came home from our honeymoon to our little house at West Kensington we didn't want other people. Omi had no friends in London, and she was afraid of mine, she said, because they were so clever, and she felt as if she had pins and needles when they talked her.
They were mostly people who were clever at something—writers and artists and singers and actors and actresses—and they were very fond of teasing and chaffing, and doing things differently from ordinary folk; but they were very natural and kind-hearted when you understood them, and I had hoped that she and they would suit one another splendidly; but somehow they seemed to put on plate-armor whenever they met. The fact was I had praised them too much to Omi, and Omi too much to them, and she and they had made up their minds that I must be wrong.
So we didn't have much company after a few formal calls, and we got on very well without. Omi used to come to the station with me in the morning; and sometimes she used to come right up to town; and when I came back she used to meet me. I was afraid at first that she would be dull while I was away all day, but she said she wasn't. Housekeeping was new to her, and she thought it was “such fun”! And when the housekeeping was done she practised songs, or drew things. She is very clever at drawing, and I wrote a few little stories, and she did funny little sketches to illustrate them, and we offered the stories and sketches together, and sold some. And when she “had to talk,” she went into the kitchen and talked to the servants, who idolized her.
“The missus do brighten a body up!” Cook told me.
She brightened my evenings, anyhow. She used to pretend—she loved pretending—that she was “a circle of friends,” and be artist, actress, singer, and half a dozen other things in turn. Sometimes we would do our little stories together, or she would draw caricatures of me while I wrote. Sometimes we played bezique or dominoes or chess (I gave her a queen). Sometimes she would act, or we would go through a scene together. Sometimes we went to a theater or concert. Sometimes we went for a walk—and when we came to a quiet road we held hands and ran. We always had a few songs every night, and a few arguments. At least, we called them arguments; but Omi can't argue. She always changes the subject whenever she is getting the worst of it!
I never had a better “circle of friends” than Omi; and Omi said she didn't want any one but me. So we didn't ask people in, and if we were asked out we made excuses; and if we met any of my friends, Omi whispered, “Don't stop.” I'm not defending us, only stating tacts. We were two young persons, and ridiculously pleased with each other; and I forgot a heavy debt of gratitude that I owed to some dear old friends. They were my friends, not Omi's, and she wasn't to blame.
I didn't quite forget, either. In fact, I felt very ashamed of staying away from the Villierses. He was an artist, and she wrote fashion and society articles. They had been very good to me, and, before I was married, I used to go to their house once a fortnight to a meeting of “The Clan.” All the nicest people I knew were in it, and we had six six rules and one “of course.”
I wanted Omi to join, and explained what a wonderful clan it was; but she shook her head.
“I don't want you to think anybody else wonderful,” she confessed, “only me! Let's be a clan of our own. What shall we call it?”
“The Pretenders?” I suggested; and she clapped her hands
“Yes! We'll meet on Thursday next”—that was when we had been asked to the Villierses—“and make rules of our own!”
We made a lot of rules at that meeting. Some of them have been altered, and one has been broken; but the main one has been kept; will be kept as long is there is breath in the members.
On the Friday, however, I met Ferris—I mean Ferris the great comedian, and president of The Clan. He stopped and talked to me for a long while: and when he was going he put his hand on my shoulder.
“Well, Jimmy,” he said. “It takes two to make a friendship, and one can always back out; but he can't make the other. Little Mrs. Villiers nearly cried when she spoke of you last night. Good-by, dear old Jimmy!”
I went home and told Omi; and she blinked.
“I think I like Mr. Ferris,” she said. “He was very kind when he called. But the rest of them would only laugh at us; like that girl did!”