James Pethel | Page 9

that she
was.
"But, darling Mother, you aren't. I believe you hate it. You're
ALWAYS asking father to go slower. And what IS the fun of just
crawling along?"
"Oh, come, Peggy, we never crawl!" said her father.
"No, indeed," said her mother in a tone of which Pethel laughingly said
it would put me off coming out with them this afternoon. I said, with an
expert air to reassure Mrs. Pethel, that it wasn't fast driving, but only
bad driving, that was a danger.
"There, Mother!" cried Peggy. "Isn't that what we're always telling
you?"
I felt that they were always either telling Mrs. Pethel something or, as
in the matter of that intended bath, not telling her something. It seemed
to me possible that Peggy advised her father about his "investments." I
wondered whether they had yet told Mrs. Pethel of their intention to go
on to Switzerland for some climbing.
Of his secretiveness for his wife's sake I had a touching little instance
after luncheon. We had adjourned to have coffee in front of the hotel.
The car was already in attendance, and Peggy had darted off to make
her daily inspection of it. Pethel had given me a cigar, and his wife
presently noticed that he himself was not smoking. He explained to her
that he thought he had smoked too much lately, and that he was going
to "knock it off" for a while. I would not have smiled if he had met my
eye, but his avoidance of it made me quite sure that he really had been
"thinking over" what I had said last night about nicotine and its

possibly deleterious action on the gambling thrill.
Mrs. Pethel saw the smile that I could not repress. I explained that I
was wishing I could knock off tobacco, and envying her husband's
strength of character. She smiled, too, but wanly, with her eyes on him.
"Nobody has so much strength of character as he has," she said.
"Nonsense!" he laughed. "I'm the weakest of men."
"Yes," she said quietly; "that's true, too, James."
Again he laughed, but he flushed. I saw that Mrs. Pethel also had
faintly flushed, and I became horribly aware of following suit. In the
sudden glow and silence created by Mrs. Pethel's paradox, I was
grateful to the daughter for bouncing back among us, and asking how
soon we should be ready to start.
Pethel looked at his wife, who looked at me and rather strangely asked
if I was sure I wanted to go with them. I protested that of course I did.
Pethel asked her if SHE really wanted to come.
"You see, dear, there was the run yesterday from Calais. And
to-morrow you'll be on the road again, and all the days after."
"Yes," said Peggy; "I'm SURE you'd much rather stay at home, darling
Mother, and have a good rest."
"Shall we go and put on our things, Peggy?" replied Mrs. Pethel, rising
from her chair. She asked her husband whether he was taking the
chauffeur with him. He said he thought not.
"Oh, hurrah!" cried Peggy. "Then I can be on the front seat!"
"No, dear," said her mother. "I am sure Mr. Beerbohms would like to
be on the front seat."
"You'd like to be with mother, wouldn't you?" the girl appealed. I
replied with all possible emphasis that I should like to be with Mrs.
Pethel. But presently, when the mother and daughter reappeared in the
guise of motorists, it became clear that my aspiration had been set aside.
"I am to be with mother," said Peggy.
I was inwardly glad that Mrs. Pethel could, after all, assert herself to
some purpose. Had I thought she disliked me, I should have been hurt;
but I was sure her desire that I should not sit with her was due merely
to a belief that, in case of accident, a person on the front seat was less
safe than a person behind. And of course I did not expect her to prefer
my life to her daughter's. Poor lady! My heart was with her. As the car
glided along the sea-front and then under the Norman archway, through

the town, and past the environs, I wished that her husband inspired in
her as much confidence as he did in me. For me the sight of his clear,
firm profile (he did not wear motor-goggles) was an assurance in itself.
From time to time (for I, too, was ungoggled) I looked round to nod
and smile cheerfully at his wife. She always returned the nod, but left
the smile to be returned by the daughter.
Pethel, like the good driver he was, did not talk; just drove. But as we
came out on to the Rouen road he