V
George Lee, M.P. for Westeringham, was a somewhat corpulent gentleman of forty-one. His eyes
were pale blue and slightly prominent with a suspicious expression, he had a heavy jowl, and a
slow pedantic utterance.
He said now in a weighty manner:
“I have told you, Magdalene, that I think it my duty to go.”
His wife shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
She was a slender creature, a platinum blonde with plucked eyebrows and a smooth egglike
face. It could, on occasions, look quite blank and devoid of any expression whatever. She was
looking like that now.
“Darling,” she said, “it will be perfectly grim, I am sure of it.”
“Moreover,” said George Lee, and his face lit up as an attractive idea occurred to him, “it will
enable us to save considerably. Christmas is always an expensive time. We can put the servants on
board wages.”
“Oh, well!” said Magdalene. “After all, Christmas is pretty grim anywhere!”
“I suppose,” said George, pursuing his own line of thought, “they will expect to have a
Christmas dinner? A nice piece of beef, perhaps, instead of a turkey.”
“Who?” The servants? Oh, George, don’t fuss so. You’re always worrying about money.”
“Somebody has to worry,” said George.
“Yes, but it’s absurd to pinch and scrape in all these little ways. Why don’t you make your
father give you some more money?”
“He already gives me a very handsome allowance.”
“It’s awful to be completely dependent on your father, as you are! He ought to settle some
money on you outright.”
“That’s not his way of doing things.”
Magdalene looked at him. Her hazel eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. The expressionless
egglike face showed sudden meaning.
“He’s frightfully rich, isn’t he, George? A kind of millionaire, isn’t he?”
“A millionaire twice over, I believe.”
Magdalene gave an envious sigh.
“How did he make it all? South Africa, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, he made a big fortune there in his early days. Mainly diamonds.”
“Thrilling!” said Magdalene.
“Then he came to England and started in business and his fortune has actually doubled or
trebled itself, I believe.”
“What will happen when he dies?” asked Magdalene.
“Father’s never said much on the subject. Of course one can’t exactly ask. I should imagine
that the bulk of his money will go to Alfred and myself. Alfred, of course, will get the larger
share.”
“You’ve got other brothers, haven’t you?”
“Yes, there’s my brother David. I don’t fancy he will get much. He went off to do art or some
tomfoolery of that kind. I believe Father warned him that he would cut him out of his will and
David said he didn’t care.”
“How silly!” said Magdalene with scorn.
“There was my sister Jennifer too. She went off with a foreigner—a Spanish artist—one of
David’s friends. But she died just over a year ago. She left a daughter, I believe. Father might
leave a little money to her, but nothing much. And of course there’s Harry—”
He stopped, slightly embarrassed.
“Harry?” said Magdalene, surprised. “Who is Harry?”
“Ah—er—my brother.”
“I never knew you had another brother.”
“My dear, he wasn’t a great—er—credit—to us. We don’t mention him. His behaviour was
disgraceful. We haven’t heard anything of him for some years now. He’s probably dead.”
Magdalene laughed suddenly.
“What is it? What are you laughing at?”
Magdalene said:
“I was only thinking how funny it was that you—you, George, should have a disreputable
brother! You’re so very respectable.”
“I should hope so,” said George coldly.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Your father isn’t—very respectable, George.”
“Really, Magdalene!”
“Sometimes the things he says make me feel quite uncomfortable.”
George said:
“Really, Magdalene, you surprise me. Does—er—does Lydia feel the same?”
“He doesn’t say the same kind of things to Lydia,” said Magdalene. She added angrily, “No,
he never says them to her. I can’t think why not.”
George glanced at her quickly and then glanced away.
“Oh, well,” he said vaguely. “One must make allowances. At Father’s age—and with his
health being so bad—”
He paused. His wife asked:
“Is he really—pretty ill?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’s remarkably tough. All the same, since he wants to have his
family round him at Christmas, I think we are quite right to go. It may be his last Christmas.”
She said sharply:
“You say that, George, but really, I suppose, he may live for years?”
Slightly taken aback, her husband stammered:
“Yes—yes, of course he may.”
Magdalene turned away.
“Oh, well,” she said, “I suppose we’re doing the right thing by going.”
“I have no doubt about it.”
“But I hate it! Alfred’s so dull, and Lydia snubs me.”
“Nonsense.”
“She does. And I hate that beastly manservant.”
“Old Tressilian?”
“No, Horbury. Sneaking round like a cat and smirking.”
“Really, Magdalene, I can’t see that Horbury can affect you in any way!”
“He just gets on my nerves, that’s all. But don’t let’s bother. We’ve got to go, I can see that.
Won’t do to offend the old man.”
“No—no, that’s just the point. About the servants’ Christmas dinner—”
“Not now, George, some other time. I’ll just ring up Lydia and tell her that we’ll come by the
five twenty tomorrow.”
Magdalene left the room precipitately. After telephoning she went up to her own room and
sat down in front of the desk. She let down the flap and rummaged in its various pigeonholes.
Cascades of bills came tumbling out. Magdalene sorted through them, trying to arrange them in
some kind of order. Finally, with an impatient sigh, she bundled them up and thrust them back
whence they had come. She passed a hand over her smooth platinum head.
“What on earth am I to do?” she murmured.
George Lee, M.P. for Westeringham, was a somewhat corpulent gentleman of forty-one. His eyes
were pale blue and slightly prominent with a suspicious expression, he had a heavy jowl, and a
slow pedantic utterance.
He said now in a weighty manner:
“I have told you, Magdalene, that I think it my duty to go.”
His wife shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
She was a slender creature, a platinum blonde with plucked eyebrows and a smooth egglike
face. It could, on occasions, look quite blank and devoid of any expression whatever. She was
looking like that now.
“Darling,” she said, “it will be perfectly grim, I am sure of it.”
“Moreover,” said George Lee, and his face lit up as an attractive idea occurred to him, “it will
enable us to save considerably. Christmas is always an expensive time. We can put the servants on
board wages.”
“Oh, well!” said Magdalene. “After all, Christmas is pretty grim anywhere!”
“I suppose,” said George, pursuing his own line of thought, “they will expect to have a
Christmas dinner? A nice piece of beef, perhaps, instead of a turkey.”
“Who?” The servants? Oh, George, don’t fuss so. You’re always worrying about money.”
“Somebody has to worry,” said George.
“Yes, but it’s absurd to pinch and scrape in all these little ways. Why don’t you make your
father give you some more money?”
“He already gives me a very handsome allowance.”
“It’s awful to be completely dependent on your father, as you are! He ought to settle some
money on you outright.”
“That’s not his way of doing things.”
Magdalene looked at him. Her hazel eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. The expressionless
egglike face showed sudden meaning.
“He’s frightfully rich, isn’t he, George? A kind of millionaire, isn’t he?”
“A millionaire twice over, I believe.”
Magdalene gave an envious sigh.
“How did he make it all? South Africa, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, he made a big fortune there in his early days. Mainly diamonds.”
“Thrilling!” said Magdalene.
“Then he came to England and started in business and his fortune has actually doubled or
trebled itself, I believe.”
“What will happen when he dies?” asked Magdalene.
“Father’s never said much on the subject. Of course one can’t exactly ask. I should imagine
that the bulk of his money will go to Alfred and myself. Alfred, of course, will get the larger
share.”
“You’ve got other brothers, haven’t you?”
“Yes, there’s my brother David. I don’t fancy he will get much. He went off to do art or some
tomfoolery of that kind. I believe Father warned him that he would cut him out of his will and
David said he didn’t care.”
“How silly!” said Magdalene with scorn.
“There was my sister Jennifer too. She went off with a foreigner—a Spanish artist—one of
David’s friends. But she died just over a year ago. She left a daughter, I believe. Father might
leave a little money to her, but nothing much. And of course there’s Harry—”
He stopped, slightly embarrassed.
“Harry?” said Magdalene, surprised. “Who is Harry?”
“Ah—er—my brother.”
“I never knew you had another brother.”
“My dear, he wasn’t a great—er—credit—to us. We don’t mention him. His behaviour was
disgraceful. We haven’t heard anything of him for some years now. He’s probably dead.”
Magdalene laughed suddenly.
“What is it? What are you laughing at?”
Magdalene said:
“I was only thinking how funny it was that you—you, George, should have a disreputable
brother! You’re so very respectable.”
“I should hope so,” said George coldly.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Your father isn’t—very respectable, George.”
“Really, Magdalene!”
“Sometimes the things he says make me feel quite uncomfortable.”
George said:
“Really, Magdalene, you surprise me. Does—er—does Lydia feel the same?”
“He doesn’t say the same kind of things to Lydia,” said Magdalene. She added angrily, “No,
he never says them to her. I can’t think why not.”
George glanced at her quickly and then glanced away.
“Oh, well,” he said vaguely. “One must make allowances. At Father’s age—and with his
health being so bad—”
He paused. His wife asked:
“Is he really—pretty ill?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’s remarkably tough. All the same, since he wants to have his
family round him at Christmas, I think we are quite right to go. It may be his last Christmas.”
She said sharply:
“You say that, George, but really, I suppose, he may live for years?”
Slightly taken aback, her husband stammered:
“Yes—yes, of course he may.”
Magdalene turned away.
“Oh, well,” she said, “I suppose we’re doing the right thing by going.”
“I have no doubt about it.”
“But I hate it! Alfred’s so dull, and Lydia snubs me.”
“Nonsense.”
“She does. And I hate that beastly manservant.”
“Old Tressilian?”
“No, Horbury. Sneaking round like a cat and smirking.”
“Really, Magdalene, I can’t see that Horbury can affect you in any way!”
“He just gets on my nerves, that’s all. But don’t let’s bother. We’ve got to go, I can see that.
Won’t do to offend the old man.”
“No—no, that’s just the point. About the servants’ Christmas dinner—”
“Not now, George, some other time. I’ll just ring up Lydia and tell her that we’ll come by the
five twenty tomorrow.”
Magdalene left the room precipitately. After telephoning she went up to her own room and
sat down in front of the desk. She let down the flap and rummaged in its various pigeonholes.
Cascades of bills came tumbling out. Magdalene sorted through them, trying to arrange them in
some kind of order. Finally, with an impatient sigh, she bundled them up and thrust them back
whence they had come. She passed a hand over her smooth platinum head.
“What on earth am I to do?” she murmured.
