Mystery at Geneva | Page 9

not
detain his audience long. At six o'clock the Assembly adjourned.
Henry despatched a short scornful story of the proceedings to his
newspaper (which would not, he knew, print a long or effusive one),
and dined with another English journalist in a cafe in the old citt. The
other journalist, Grattan, came from Paris, and was bored with the
League and with Geneva. He preferred to report crime and blood,
something, as he said, with guts in it. Statesmen assembled together
made him yawn. For his part, he wished something would happen
during the Assembly worth writing home about some crime passtonnel,
some blood and thunder melodrama. "Perhaps," said Henry, hopefully,
"it will."
"Well, it may. All these hot-blooded Latins and Slavs herded together
ought to be able to produce something... I bet you the Spanish
Americans are hatching something to-night over there..." He waved his
hand in the direction of the other side of the lake, where the great hotels
blazed their thousand windows into the night. Behind those windows
burnt who knew what of passion and of plot?
Dr. Svensen, strolling at a late hour across the Pont du Mont Blanc (he
was returning from dinner at the Beau Rivage to his own hotel), was
disturbed by a whimpering noise behind him, like the mewing of a little
cat. Turning round, he saw a small and ragged form padding barefoot
after him, its knuckles in its eyes. The Norwegian explorer, unlike most
great men, was tenderhearted to children. Bending down to the crying
urchin, he inquired of it the cause of its trouble. Its answer was in
Russian, and to the effect that it was very hungry. Dr. Svenscn softened
yet more. A hungry Russian child! That was an object of pity which he
never could resist. Russia was full of them; this one was probably an
exiled Bolshevik. He felt in his pockets for coins, but the hungry
Russian infant tugged at his coat. " Come," it said, and Dr. Svenscn
gathered from it that there were yet more hungry Russians where this

came from. He followed.
The morning session of the Assembly was supposed to begin at ten,
and at this hour next morning the unsophisticated Henry Becchtree took
his seat in the Press Gallery. He soon perceived his mistake. The show
obviously was not going to begin for ages. No self-respecting delegate
or journalist would come into the hall on the stroke of the hour. The
superior thing, in this as in other departments of life, was to be late.
Lateness showed that serene contempt for the illusion we call time
which is so necessary to ensure the respect of others and oneself. Only
the servile are punctual....
But " Nothing to swank about in being late," thought Henry morosely; "
only means they've spent too long over their coffee and bread and
honey, the gluttons. I could have done the same myself."
Indeed, he wished that he had, for he fell again into the hands of the
elderly clergyman who had addressed him yesterday, and who was, of
course, punctual too.
"I see," said the clergyman, " that you have one of the French comic
papers with you. A pity their humour is so much spoilt by
suggestiveness."
Suggestiveness. Henry could never understand that word as applied in
condemnation.
Should not everything be suggestive? Or should all literature, art, and
humour be a cul-de-sac, suggesting no idea whatsoever? Henry did not
want to be uncharitable, but he could not but think that those who used
this word in this sense laid themselves open to the suspicion (in this
case, at least, quite unjustified), that their minds were only receptive of
one kind of suggestion, and that a coarse one.
"I expect," he replied, "that you mean coarseness. People often do when
they use that word, I notice. Anyhow, the papers are not very funny, I
find!"

"Suggestiveness," said the clergyman, "is seldom amusing."
Before Henry had time to argue again about this word, he hurried on.
"I sent yesterday a long message to the Church Times, the Guardian,
the Commonwealth, and the Challenge about the first meeting. It is
most important that these papers should set before their readers the part
that the Church ought to play in promoting international goodwill."
"Indeed," said Henry, who did not see Anglican journals. He added
vaguely, "The Pope sent a telegram...." For when people spoke to him
of Church life, he said "the Pope" mechanically; it was his natural
reaction to the subject.
"You interest me," said the English clergyman. " For the second time
you have mentioned the Pope to me. Are you, perhaps, a Roman
Catholic?"
"I suppose," Henry absently agreed, "that is what you would call it."
"We do, you know," the clergyman apologised. "Forgive me