Piccadilly Jim | Page 6

the type of woman whom small,
diffident men seem to marry instinctively, as unable to help themselves
as cockleshell boats sucked into a maelstrom.
"What are you going to do about it?" she demanded, sinking heavily
into the chair which her husband had vacated.
This was an aspect of the matter which had not occurred to Mr. Pett. He
had not contemplated the possibility of actually doing anything. Nature
had made him out of office hours essentially a passive organism, and it
was his tendency, when he found himself in a sea of troubles, to float
plaintively, not to take arms against it. To pick up the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune and fling them back was not a habit of his. He
scratched his chin and said nothing. He went on saying nothing.
"If Eugenia had had any sense, she would have foreseen what would
happen if she took the boy away from New York where he was
working too hard to get into mischief and let him run loose in London
with too much money and nothing to do. But, if she had had any sense,
she would never have married that impossible Crocker man. As I told
her."
Mrs. Pett paused, and her eyes glowed with reminiscent fire. She was
recalling the scene which had taken place three years ago between her
sister and herself, when Eugenia had told her of her intention to marry
an obscure and middle-aged actor named Bingley Crocker. Mrs. Pett
had never seen Bingley Crocker, but she had condemned the proposed
match in terms which had ended definitely and forever her relations
with her sister. Eugenia was not a woman who welcomed criticism of
her actions. She was cast in the same formidable mould as Mrs. Pett
and resembled her strikingly both in appearance and character.
Mrs. Pett returned to the present. The past could look after itself. The
present demanded surgery.
"One would have thought it would have been obvious even to Eugenia

that a boy of twenty-one needed regular work."
Mr. Pett was glad to come out of his shell here. He was the Apostle of
Work, and this sentiment pleased him.
"That's right," he said. "Every boy ought to have work."
"Look at this young Crocker's record since he went to live in London.
He is always doing something to make himself notorious. There was
that breach-of-promise case, and that fight at the political meeting, and
his escapades at Monte Carlo, and--and everything. And he must be
drinking himself to death. I think Eugenia's insane. She seems to have
no influence over him at all."
Mr. Pett moaned sympathetically.
"And now the papers have found out that I am his aunt, and I suppose
they will print my photograph whenever they publish an article about
him."
She ceased and sat rigid with just wrath. Mr. Pett, who always felt his
responsibilities as chorus keenly during these wifely monologues,
surmised that a remark from him was indicated.
"It's tough," he said.
Mrs. Pett turned on him like a wounded tigress.
"What is the use of saying that? It's no use saying anything."
"No, no," said Mr. Pett, prudently refraining from pointing out that she
had already said a good deal.
"You must do something."
Ann entered the conversation for the first time. She was not very fond
of her aunt, and liked her least when she was bullying Mr. Pett. There
was something in Mrs. Pett's character with which the imperiousness
which lay beneath Ann's cheerful attitude towards the world was ever

at war.
"What can uncle Peter possibly do?" she inquired.
"Why, get the boy back to America and make him work. It's the only
possible thing."
"But is it possible?"
"Of course it is."
"Assuming that Jimmy Crocker would accept an invitation to come
over to America, what sort of work could he do here? He couldn't get
his place on the Chronicle back again after dropping out for all these
years and making a public pest of himself all that while. And outside of
newspaper work what is he fit for?"
"My dear child, don't make difficulties."
"I'm not. These are ready-made."
Mr. Pett interposed. He was always nervously apprehensive of a clash
between these two. Ann had red hair and the nature which generally
goes with red hair. She was impulsive and quick of tongue, and--as he
remembered her father had always been--a little too ready for combat.
She was usually as quickly remorseful as she was quickly pugnacious,
like most persons of her colour. Her offer to type the story which now
lay on her desk had been the amende honourable following on just such
a scene with her aunt as this promised to be. Mr. Pett had no wish to
see the truce thus consummated