Simon the Jester | Page 8

brings me to my news. I was talking to Raggles the other
day--he dropped a hint, and Raggles's hints are jolly well worth while
picking up. Just come to the front and show yourself, and there's a
place in the Ministry."
"Ministry?"
"Sanderson's going."
"Sanderson?" I queried, interested, in spite of myself, at these
puerilities. "What's the matter with him?"
"Swelled head. There have been awful rows--this is confidential--and
he's got the hump. Thinks he ought to be the Chancellor of the

Exchequer, or at least First Lord, instead of an Under Secretary. So he's
going to chuck it, before he gets the chuck himself--see?"
"I perceive," said I, "that your conversational English style is
abominable."
He lit a cigarette and continued, loftily taking no notice of my rebuke.
"There's bound to be a vacancy. Why shouldn't you fill it? They seem
to want you. You're miles away over the heads of the average solemn
duffers who get office."
I bowed acknowledgment of his tribute.
"Well, you will buck up and try for it, won't you? I'm awfully proud of
you already, but I should go off my head with joy if you were in the
Ministry."
I met his honest young eyes as well as I could. How was I going to
convey to his candid intelligence the fact of my speedy withdrawal
from political life without shattering his illusions? Besides, his
devotion touched me, and his generous aspirations were so futile.
Office! It was in my grasp. Raggles, with his finger always on the pulse
of the party machine, was the last man in the world to talk nonsense. I
only had to "buck up." Yet by the time Sanderson sends in his
resignation to the King of England, I shall have sent in mine to the
King of Hosts. I moved slightly in my chair, and a twinge of the little
pain inside brought a gasp to my throat. But I felt grateful to it. It was
saving me from an unconscionable deal of worry. Fancy going to a
confounded office every morning like a clerk in the City! I was happier
at peace. I rose and warmed myself by the fire. Dale regarded me
uncomprehendingly.
"You look as if the prospect bored you to tears. I thought you would be
delighted."
"/Vanitas vanitatum/," said I. "/Omnia vanitas/."

"Rot!" said Dale.
"It's true."
"I must fetch Eleanor Faversham back from Sicily," said Dale.
"Don't," said I.
"Well, I give you up," he declared, pushing his chair from the table and
swinging one leg across the other. I leaned forward and scrutinised his
ankles.
"What are you looking at?"
"There must be something radically wrong with you, Dale," I
murmured sympathetically. "It is part of the religion of your generation
to wear socks to match your tie. To-day your tie is wine-coloured and
your socks are green----"
"Good Lord," he cried, "so they are! I dressed myself anyhow this
morning."
"What's wrong with you?"
He threw his cigarette impatiently into the fire.
"Every infernal thing that can possibly be. Everything's rotten--but I've
not come here to talk about myself."
"Why not?"
"It isn't the game. I'm here on your business, which is ever so much
more important than mine. Where are this morning's letters?"
I pointed to an unopened heap on a writing-table at the end of the room.
He crossed and sat down before them. Presently he turned sharply.
"You haven't looked through the envelopes. Here is one from Sicily."

I took the letter from him, and sighed to myself as I read it. Eleanor
was miserable. The Sicilians were dirty. The Duomo of Palermo did
not come up to her expectations. The Mobray-Robertsons, with whom
she travelled, quarrelled with their food. They had never even heard of
Theocritus. She had a cold in her head, and was utterly at a loss to
explain my attitude. Therefore she was coming back to London.
I wish I could find her a nice tame husband who had heard of
Theocritus. It would be such a good thing for everybody, husband
included. For, I repeat, Eleanor is a young woman of fine character, and
the man to whom she gives her heart will be a fortunate fellow.
While I was reading the letter and meditating on it, with my back to the
fire, Dale plunged into the morning's correspondence with an air of
enjoyment. That is the astonishing thing about him. He loves work. The
more I give him to do the better he likes it. His cronies, who in raiment,
manners, and tastes differ from him no more than a row of pins differs
from a stray brother, regard a writing-chair as a mediaeval instrument
of torture, and faint at the sight of ink. They will put themselves to all
kinds of