Dear Brutus | Page 2

friendly limp.
Of the other four ladies, all young and physically fair, two are married.
Mrs. Dearth is tall, of smouldering eye and fierce desires, murky beasts
lie in ambush in the labyrinths of her mind, she is a white-faced gypsy
with a husky voice, most beautiful when she is sullen, and therefore
frequently at her best. The other ladies when in conclave refer to her as
The Dearth. Mrs. Purdie is a safer companion for the toddling kind of
man. She is soft and pleading, and would seek what she wants by
laying her head on the loved one's shoulder, while The Dearth might
attain it with a pistol. A brighter spirit than either is Joanna Trout who,
when her affections are not engaged, has a merry face and figure, but
can dismiss them both at the important moment, which is at the word
'love.' Then Joanna quivers, her sense of humour ceases to beat and the
dullest man may go ahead. There remains Lady Caroline Laney of the
disdainful poise, lately from the enormously select school where they
are taught to pronounce their r's as w's; nothing else seems to be taught,
but for matrimonial success nothing else is necessary. Every woman
who pronounces r as w will find a mate; it appeals to all that is
chivalrous in man.
An old-fashioned gallantry induces us to accept from each of these
ladies her own estimate of herself, and fortunately it is favourable in
every case. This refers to their estimate of themselves up to the hour of
ten on the evening on which we first meet them; the estimate may have
changed temporarily by the time we part from them on the following
morning. What their mirrors say to each of them is, A dear face, not
classically perfect but abounding in that changing charm which is the
best type of English womanhood; here is a woman who has seen and
felt far more than her reticent nature readily betrays; she sometimes
smiles, but behind that concession, controlling it in a manner hardly

less than adorable, lurks the sigh called Knowledge; a strangely
interesting face, mysterious; a line for her tombstone might be 'If I had
been a man what adventures I could have had with her who lies here.'
Are these ladies then so very alike? They would all deny it, so we must
take our own soundings. At this moment of their appearance in the
drawing-room at least they are alike in having a common interest. No
sooner has the dining-room door closed than purpose leaps to their eyes;
oddly enough, the men having been got rid of, the drama begins.
ALICE DEARTH (the darkest spirit but the bravest). We must not
waste a second. Our minds are made up, I think?
JOANNA. Now is the time.
MRS. COADE (at once delighted and appalled). Yes, now if at all; but
should we?
ALICE. Certainly; and before the men come in.
MABEL PURDIE. You don't think we should wait for the men? They
are as much in it as we are.
LADY CAROLINE (unlucky, as her opening remark is without a
single r). Lob would be with them. If the thing is to be done at all it
should be done now.
MRS. COADE. IS it quite fair to Lob? After all, he is our host.
JOANNA. Of course it isn't fair to him, but let's do it, Coady.
MRS. COADE. Yes, let's do it!
MABEL. Mrs. Dearth is doing it.
ALICE (who is writing out a telegram). Of course I am. The men are
not coming, are they?
JOANNA (reconnoitring). NO; your husband is having another glass of

port.
ALICE. I am sure he is. One of you ring, please.
(The bold Joanna rings.)
MRS. COADE. Poor Matey!
LADY CAROLINE. He wichly desewves what he is about to get.
JOANNA. He is coming! Don't all stand huddled together like
conspirators.
MRS. COADE. It is what we are!
(Swiftly they find seats, and are sunk thereon like ladies waiting
languidly for their lords when the doomed butler appears. He is a man
of brawn, who could cast any one of them forth for a wager; but we are
about to connive at the triumph of mind over matter.)
ALICE (always at her best before "the bright face of danger"). Ah,
Matey, I wish this telegram sent.
MATEY (a general favourite). Very good, ma'am. The village post
office closed at eight, but if your message is important--
ALICE. It is; and you are so clever, Matey, I am sure that you can
persuade them to oblige you.
MATEY (taking the telegram). I will see to it myself, ma'am; you can
depend on its going.
(There comes a little gasp from COADY, which is the equivalent to
dropping a stitch in