The Road to Mandalay | Page 9

a home of her own, and made this alarmingly obvious.
To "Monte Carlo" Douglas, the highly presentable cousin, was
frequently commanded by both mother and aunt. At first he had hated
this duty, but nevertheless went, in order to please and silence his
parent, whose hand plied the goad and who otherwise "nagged" at him
in public and in private. In private she pointed out that the Larcher
family were his own blood relations, "so different from his father's side
of the house, which, since his death, had ignored both her and him, and
never even sent a wreath to the funeral!" By slow and painful degrees
Douglas became accustomed to "Monte Carlo"; at first the manners and
customs of his cousins had a rasping effect, and it was more than a year
before he really fell into line, and visited his kindred without pressure.
The girls were not bad-looking--in a flamboyant style--and effusively
good-natured; they took his chaff and criticism without offence, and
accepted with giggles his hints with respect to manners and appearance.
When Douglas happened to be expected, they did not stroll about
slip-shod in dressing-gowns, with their hair hanging loose, or bombard

one another with corks and crusts.
For his part, he brought them books and chocolates, watered the garden,
mowed the tennis ground, mended the bells, and made himself
generally useful. At first this flashy, muddling, free-and-easy
household had disgusted him; and his cool assured manner and critical
air irritated his relatives; whilst his attitude of superior comment had
proved a vexatious restraint. But week by week Douglas came to see
that it was to this particular class he now belonged. These were his
nearest relatives, and he told himself that he must endeavour to
accommodate himself to circumstances--and them; otherwise he was a
snob, a beastly snob!
His first Christmas holidays had been spent at "Tremenheere," where
he had received a heart-warming welcome. Other school friends had
also claimed him, but his time was now mortgaged to the office, and by
degrees correspondence and intimacy languished--or, rather, changed.
His contemporaries had gone forth into the wide world; the Army, the
Diplomatic Service, and India, had summoned them, their paths in life
lay far apart from that of a mere correspondence clerk, and only the old
birds remained in the nests. Those who were in England wrote and
made arrangements for meetings in town, but Shafto found ready and
real excuses and generally withdrew from his former circle. He liked
his friends--nothing could offer him so much pleasure as their
company--but he realised that in time they would arrive at the parting
of the ways, and it was for him to make the first step in that direction;
in such homes as "Monte Carlo" he must in future find society and
entertainment.
* * * * * *
"Monte Carlo" (sixpence return, third class, from town, and eight
minutes' walk from the station) was a grotesque, little red-faced abode,
situated among a tangle of villas and roads. It stood detached in a
garden, with--O! theme of pride--a full-sized tennis court. There were
also several flower beds, and six unhappy gooseberry bushes, but the
feature was the lawn; here also were seats and a small striped awning.
The grounds of "Monte Carlo" were only divided from its immediate

neighbours by a thin wooden partition--there was no such thing as
privacy or seclusion. Conversation was audible, and the boisterous
jokes of "Chatsworth" and "Travancore" were thoroughly enjoyed at
"Monte Carlo." In the same way "Monte Carlo" overheard various
interesting items of news, some sharp quarrels and, once or twice,
unpleasant personal truths! On the last occasion, the remark was so
unfriendly (it dealt with Cossie's methods) that when "Chatsworth,"
ignorant of offence, sent the same evening an emissary to borrow three
pints of stout, the reply was a harsh refusal!
Within doors space was naturally more contracted, but the click of the
opposite gate, the sound of the next door dinner-bell and gramophone
remained, as it were, common property! The tiny hall was choked with
umbrellas, wraps, tennis shoes, and tattered sixpenny books; the
drawing-room, with its pink casement curtains, gaudy cretonne covers,
huge signed photographs, jars of dusty artificial bowers, packs of dingy
cards, and scraps of millinery, looked "lived in"--but tawdry and untidy.
The big Chesterfield sofa--a wonderful bargain--had broken springs
(perhaps it was not such a wonderful bargain?) and many hills and
hollows. In the roomiest of these last the mistress of the house was
more or less a fixture, and the whole apartment, like a passée beauty,
was to be seen at its best by candle-light.
The dining-room was chiefly notable for the heavy atmosphere of
tobacco, and multitudes of empty black bottles under the sideboard.
The kitchen, both in sound and smell, absolutely refused