get started it’s every man for himself.’
‘The survival of the fittest?’ Rocky suggested.
‘Yes, perhaps that is it. I hope we shall remember our manners sufficiently to offer refreshment to the ladies first,’ continued the old man, with a little bow in my direction. ‘Ah, here is our excellent Miss Clovis with the teapot.’ He turned away and busied himself with cups and saucers.
‘Do you think he is going to bring some to us?’ I asked Rocky.
‘Well, after what he has just said I should think he will surely bring you a cup of tea.’
But we were wrong, for he quickly helped himself to tea, collected an assortment of sandwiches and cakes on a plate and retired to the opposite corner of the room. We watched other elderly and middle-aged men doing the same, though one was held back by an imperious woman’s voice calling ‘Now, Herbert, no milk for Miss Jellink, remember!’
Rocky and I joined in a general scramble and took our spoils to a convenient bookcase where we could put our cups down on a shelf.
‘These are quite obviously the books that nobody reads,’ said Rocky, studying their titles. ‘But it’s a comfort to know that they are here if you ever should want to read them. I’m sure I should find them more entertaining than the more up-to-date ones. Wild Beasts and their Ways; Five Years with the Congo Cannibals; With Camera and Pen in Northern Nigeria; Sunshine and Storm in Rhodesia. I wish people still wrote books with titles like that. Nowadays I believe it simply isn’t done to show a photograph of “The Author with his Pygmy Friends”—we have become too depressingly scientific.’
‘You might write a book about your adventures in Italy,’ I suggested. ‘It might well have such a title.’
We amused ourselves by discussing the variations on this theme and while we were in the middle of our fantasies Everard and Helena came up to us and began to point out some of the more eminent persons present. The President was a tall mild-looking old man with a white wispy beard, in which some crumbly fragments of meringue had lodged themselves. In his younger days he had apparently written some rather startling pamphlets about the nature of the universe.
‘I believe his father turned him out of the house,’ said Everard. ‘You see, he was a Methodist Minister and when he found out that his son was a militant atheist I suppose it became awkward.’
‘That old man an atheist!’ I exclaimed, unable to believe that anyone who looked so mild and benevolent should be what always sounded such a very wicked and startling thing. ‘But he looks so unlike that. More like a bishop, really.’
‘Or an old-fashioned picture of God,’ suggested Rocky. ‘I like to imagine the scene in the Victorian household, the father’s wrath and the mother’s tears, those dreadful scenes at the breakfast table. And yet, what does it all matter now? In a few years’ time they will all be together in Heaven.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Helena impatiently, ‘how ridiculous you are. Afterwards I’ll introduce you to some of the really worthwhile people here. Apfelbaum, Tyrell Todd, and Steinartz from Yale—the new generation.’
‘They sound delightful,’ said Rocky gravely.
‘I think we should be going in,’ said Everard. ‘The President seems to be moving.’
We now followed them into a room adjoining the library where a number of people were already sitting. I noticed that the front rows were basket chairs and that one or two elderly men and women had settled themselves comfortably. One old man wore a purple muffler wound round his neck; an old woman took a piece of multi-coloured knitting from a raffia bag and began to work on it.
Rocky and I took our seats somewhere in the middle of the room on the harder chairs. The younger people sat here, girls with flowing hair and scarlet nails and youths with hair almost as flowing and corduroy trousers. I noticed one or two Americans, serious-looking
‘The survival of the fittest?’ Rocky suggested.
‘Yes, perhaps that is it. I hope we shall remember our manners sufficiently to offer refreshment to the ladies first,’ continued the old man, with a little bow in my direction. ‘Ah, here is our excellent Miss Clovis with the teapot.’ He turned away and busied himself with cups and saucers.
‘Do you think he is going to bring some to us?’ I asked Rocky.
‘Well, after what he has just said I should think he will surely bring you a cup of tea.’
But we were wrong, for he quickly helped himself to tea, collected an assortment of sandwiches and cakes on a plate and retired to the opposite corner of the room. We watched other elderly and middle-aged men doing the same, though one was held back by an imperious woman’s voice calling ‘Now, Herbert, no milk for Miss Jellink, remember!’
Rocky and I joined in a general scramble and took our spoils to a convenient bookcase where we could put our cups down on a shelf.
‘These are quite obviously the books that nobody reads,’ said Rocky, studying their titles. ‘But it’s a comfort to know that they are here if you ever should want to read them. I’m sure I should find them more entertaining than the more up-to-date ones. Wild Beasts and their Ways; Five Years with the Congo Cannibals; With Camera and Pen in Northern Nigeria; Sunshine and Storm in Rhodesia. I wish people still wrote books with titles like that. Nowadays I believe it simply isn’t done to show a photograph of “The Author with his Pygmy Friends”—we have become too depressingly scientific.’
‘You might write a book about your adventures in Italy,’ I suggested. ‘It might well have such a title.’
We amused ourselves by discussing the variations on this theme and while we were in the middle of our fantasies Everard and Helena came up to us and began to point out some of the more eminent persons present. The President was a tall mild-looking old man with a white wispy beard, in which some crumbly fragments of meringue had lodged themselves. In his younger days he had apparently written some rather startling pamphlets about the nature of the universe.
‘I believe his father turned him out of the house,’ said Everard. ‘You see, he was a Methodist Minister and when he found out that his son was a militant atheist I suppose it became awkward.’
‘That old man an atheist!’ I exclaimed, unable to believe that anyone who looked so mild and benevolent should be what always sounded such a very wicked and startling thing. ‘But he looks so unlike that. More like a bishop, really.’
‘Or an old-fashioned picture of God,’ suggested Rocky. ‘I like to imagine the scene in the Victorian household, the father’s wrath and the mother’s tears, those dreadful scenes at the breakfast table. And yet, what does it all matter now? In a few years’ time they will all be together in Heaven.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Helena impatiently, ‘how ridiculous you are. Afterwards I’ll introduce you to some of the really worthwhile people here. Apfelbaum, Tyrell Todd, and Steinartz from Yale—the new generation.’
‘They sound delightful,’ said Rocky gravely.
‘I think we should be going in,’ said Everard. ‘The President seems to be moving.’
We now followed them into a room adjoining the library where a number of people were already sitting. I noticed that the front rows were basket chairs and that one or two elderly men and women had settled themselves comfortably. One old man wore a purple muffler wound round his neck; an old woman took a piece of multi-coloured knitting from a raffia bag and began to work on it.
Rocky and I took our seats somewhere in the middle of the room on the harder chairs. The younger people sat here, girls with flowing hair and scarlet nails and youths with hair almost as flowing and corduroy trousers. I noticed one or two Americans, serious-looking
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