The Right Stuff | Page 6

my wife does not often talk in this unfeeling manner.
But she suffers at times from a desire to live up to a sort of honorary
reputation for sprightly humour, conferred upon her by
undiscriminating admirers in the days before she became engaged to
me. As a matter of fact, her solicitude on my behalf was largely due to

an ambition to see a little paragraph in the newspapers, announcing that
"Mr Adrian Inglethwaite, M.P., Director of the Sub-Tropical and Arctic
Department at the Foreign Office, has appointed Mr Blankley Dash to
be his Private Secretary."
Dolly and Dilly seconded the motion. They had not the effrontery to
wrap up their motives in specious expressions of concern for my health,
but stated their point of view with brutal frankness, as is their wont. I
was an old dear, they conceded, and of course Kitty was Kitty; but a
sister and brother-in-law were, to put it quite plainly, a hopelessly dull
couple to live with: and the visits of Mesdames Dolly and Dilly to our
roof-tree would, it was hinted, be more frequent and enduring if the
establishment was strengthened by the addition of a presentable young
man.
I consented. It was three to one. To any one acquainted with the trio of
sisters arrayed against me, it will at once be apparent that "these odds"
(as the halfpenny papers say) "but faintly represent the superiority of
the winning side."
Having thus dragged the reader without apology into the most intimate
regions of my family circle, I had perhaps better introduce myself and
my entourage a little more formally.
My name is Samuel Adrian Inglethwaite. Why I was called Samuel I
do not know. Possibly my parents did. Samuel may have been a
baptismal sprat set to catch a testamentary whale, but if this was so no
legacy ever came my way. Personally, I am rather attached to the name,
as I was called nothing else until I encountered the lady who ultimately
consented to become Mrs Inglethwaite. Since that epoch in my career I
have been S. Adrian Inglethwaite.
I am thirty-six years of age, and hold an appointment under
Government, which, while it does not carry with it Cabinet
rank--though Kitty cannot see why--is sufficiently important to make
the daily papers keep my obituary notice handily pigeon-holed, in case
I fall over the Thames Embankment, get run over by a motor-bus, or
otherwise contravene the by-laws of the London County Council.

As no man can possibly give an unbiassed opinion of his own wife, I
shall not attempt to describe mine at this juncture, except to mention
that she is a woman with no fault that I can for the moment recall,
beyond a predilection for belonging to societies which are better known
for their aims than for their achievements, are perennially short of
funds, and seem to possess no place of meeting except my
drawing-room.
Dolly and Dilly are Kitty's sisters. They are twins, and there present age
is, I think, nineteen. Though I say it who should not, they are both
astonishingly attractive young persons, and the more I see of them the
more the fact is borne in upon me. Indeed, a casual remark of mine to
that effect, uttered to my wife, by an unfortunate coincidence, on the
very morning upon which one of the numerous Deceased Wife's Sister's
Bills passed its Second Reading in the House, gave rise to a coldness of
demeanour on her part which was only dispelled by an abject apology
and a dinner for two at the Savoy on mine.
To return to Dolly and Dilly. I never know them apart, and I do not
think Kitty does either. Both are divinely tall and divinely fair; they are
exactly like each other in form, voice, and feature; and they possess the
irritating habit, not uncommon with twins, of endeavouring to
exaggerate their natural resemblance by various puzzling and, I
consider, unsportsmanlike devices. They wear each other's clothes
indiscriminately, and are not above taking turn and turn about with the
affections of unsuspecting young men, of whom they possess a
considerable following. They attract admiration without effort, and, I
honestly believe, without intention. Of the meaning of love they know
nothing,--they are female Peter Pans, and resolutely refuse to grow up,
except outwardly,--and the intrusion of that passion into their dealings
with persons of the male gender is regarded by them at present as a
contingency to be discouraged at all costs. The conditions under which
they admit their admirers to their friendship are commendably simple
and perfectly definite. If a man is adjudged by them to have attained all
the complicated and inexplicable standards by which women judge the
opposite sex, he is admitted into the ranks of the Good Sorts; and