The Parts Men Play | Page 2

ON A DINNER.

I.
His Majesty's postmen were delivering mail. Through the gray grime of
a November morning that left a taste of rust in the throat, the carriers of
letters were bearing their cargo to all the corners of that world which is
called London.
There were letters from hospitals asking for funds; there were appeals
from sick people seeking admission to hospital. There were long, legal
letters and little, scented letters lying wonderingly together in the
postman's bag. There were notes from tailors to gentlemen begging to
remind them; and there were answers from gentlemen to their tailors, in
envelopes bearing the crests of Pall Mail clubs, hinting of temporary
embarrassment, but mentioning certain prospects that would shortly
enable them to . . . .
Fat, bulging envelopes, returning manuscripts with editors' regrets,
were on their way to poor devils of scribblers living in the altitude of
unrecognised genius and a garret. There were cringing, fawning epistles,
written with a smirk and sealed with a scowl; some there were couched
in a refinement of cruelty that cut like a knife.
But, as unconcerned as tramps plying contraband between South
America and Mexico, His Majesty's postmen were delivering His
Majesty's mail, with never a thought of the play of human emotions
lying behind the sealed lips of an envelope. If His Majesty's subjects
insisted upon writing to one another, it was obvious that their letters, in
some mysterious way become the property of His Majesty, had to be
delivered.
Thus it happened, on a certain November morning in the year 1913,
that six dinner invitations, enclosed in small, square envelopes with a
noble crest on the back, and large, unwieldy writing on the front, were
being carried through His Majesty's fog to six addresses in the West
End of London.
Lady Durwent had decided to give a dinner.

An ordinary hostess merely writes a carelessly formal note stating that
she hopes the recipient will be able to dine with her on a certain
evening. The form of her invitations varies as little as the conversation
at her table. But Lady Durwent was unusual. For years she had
endeavoured to impress the fact on London, and by careful attention to
detail had at last succeeded in gaining that reputation. She was that
rara avis among the women of to-day--the hostess who knows her
guests. She never asked any one to dine at her house without some
definite purpose in mind--and, for that matter, her guests never dined
with her except on the same terms.
Therefore it came about that Lady Durwent's dinners were among the
pleasantest things in town, and, true to her character of the unusual, she
always worded her invitations with a nice discrimination dictated by
the exact motive that prompted the sending.
II.
H. Stackton Dunckley looked up from his pillow as the man-servant
who valeted for the gentlemen of the Jermyn Street Chambers drew
aside a gray curtain and displayed the gray blanket of the atmosphere
outside.
'Good-morning, Watson,' said Mr. Dunckley in a voice which gave the
impression that he had smoked too many cigars the previous
evening--an impression considerably strengthened by the bilious
appearance of his face.
'Good-morning, sir. Will you have the Times or the _Morning Post_?
And here are your letters, sir.'
The recumbent gentleman took the letters and waved them
philosophically at the valet. 'Leave me to my thoughts,' he said thickly,
but with considerable dignity. 'I am not interested in the squeaky jarring
of the world revolving on its rusty axis.'
Being an author, he almost invariably tried out his command of
language in the morning, as a tenor essays two or three notes on rising,

to make sure that his voice has not left him during his slumber.
Mr. Watson bowed and withdrew. H. Stackton Dunckley lit a cigarette,
opened the first letter, and read it.
'8 CHELMSFORD GARDENS.
'MY DEAR STACKY,--Next Friday I am giving a little
dinner-party--just a few unusual people--to meet an American author
who has recently come to England. Do come; but, you brilliant man,
don't be too caustic, will you?
'Isn't it dreadful the way gossip is connecting our names? Supposing
Lord Durwent should hear about it!--Until Friday,
'SYBIL DURWENT.
'P.S.--How is the play coming on? Dinner will be at 8.30.'
H. Stackton Dunckley put the letter down and sighed. He was an author
who had been writing other men's ideas all his life, but without
sufficient distinction to achieve either a success or a failure. He had
gained some notoriety by his wife suing him for divorce; but when the
Court granted her separation on the ground of desertion, it cleared him
of the charge of infidelity--and of the chance of advertisement at the
same moment. Later, by being a constant attendant on Lady Durwent,
he