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Updated: June 20, 2025
I had thought, when Mrs. Beverly-Jones said a small party, she really meant small. I had had a mental picture of a few sad people, greeting me very quietly and gently, and of myself, quiet, too, but cheerful somehow lifting them up, with no great effort, by my mere presence. Somehow from the very first I could feel that Beverly-Jones was disappointed in me. He said nothing. But I knew it.
Look at that, the whole corner knocks right off, see!" Beverly-Jones entered no protest. I began to see that there is a sort of understanding, a kind of freemasonry, among men who have summer places. One shows his things; the other runs them down, and smashes them. This makes the whole thing easy at once. Beverly-Jones showed his lawn. "Your turf is all wrong, old boy," said Poppleton.
"Old man," Beverly-Jones said, as he laid his hand on mine very kindly he is a decent fellow, after all, is Jones "they're calling you by long-distance from New York." "What is it?" I asked, or tried to gasp. "It's bad news, old chap; fire in your office last evening. I'm afraid a lot of your private papers were burned.
"Look! it has no body to it. See, I can kick holes in it with my heel. Look at that, and that! If I had on stronger boots I could kick this lawn all to pieces." "These geraniums along the border," said Beverly-Jones, "are rather an experiment. They're Dutch." "But my dear fellow," said Poppleton, "you've got them set in wrongly. They ought to slope from the sun you know, never to it.
"We had quite a struggle," said Beverly-Jones, "before we finally decided on sandstone." I realized that he had one and the same line of talk that he always used. I resented it. No wonder it was easy for him. "Great mistake," said Poppleton. "Too soft. Look at this" here he picked up a big stone and began pounding at the gate-post "see how easily it chips! Smashes right off.
Wake them up! Ye gods! Me wake them up! One hour later I was repenting of my folly, and wishing, when I thought of the two cocktails, that the prohibition wave could be hurried up so as to leave us all high and dry bone-dry, silent and unsociable. Then I clung to the hope that Beverly-Jones would forget. But no. In due time his wife wrote to me.
This seemed to please them both. Apparently it is a well-understood method of entertaining a guest and being entertained. Beverly-Jones and Poppleton, after an hour or so of it, were delighted with one another. Yet somehow, when I tried it myself, it failed to work. "Do you know what I would do with that cedar summer-house if it was mine?" I asked my host the next day. "No," he said.
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