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Updated: August 21, 2024
A host has no right to interne a regiment of his relations in his house unless he also invites lively and agreeable outsiders to meet them. If he does commit this solecism the least he can do is to work himself to the bone in the effort to invent amusements and diversions for his victims. Lord Emsworth had failed badly in both these matters. With the exception of Mr.
Freddie was in bed, with orders from the doctor to stay there until further notice. Baxter had washed his face. Lord Emsworth had returned to his garden fork. The rest of the house party strolled about the grounds or sat in them, for the day was one of those late spring days that are warm with a premature suggestion of midsummer.
"They were never nearly such children as Emsworth is now," snorted the colonel. "If that girl isn't in love with Emerson I'll be I'll eat my hat." "No, no," said the bishop. "No, no! Surely not, Horace. What were you saying when you broke off?"
His goal was the genteel dining-room on the first floor, where a bald and shuffling waiter, own cousin to a tortoise, served luncheon to those desiring it. Lack of sleep had reduced Baxter to a condition where the presence and chatter of the house party were insupportable. It was his purpose to lunch at the Emsworth Arms and take a nap in an armchair afterward.
Peters' collection of scarabs. To be sure! He remembered now his collection of scarabs. Or was it Arabs? Lord Emsworth smiled. Scarabs, of course. You couldn't collect Arabs.
Strictly speaking, Lord Emsworth thought nothing of it; and he was wondering how to veil this opinion in diplomatic words, when the providence that looks after all good men saved him by causing a knock at the door to occur. In response to Mr. Peters' irritated cry a maid entered. "If you please, sir, Mr. Threepwood wishes to speak with you on the telephone." Mr. Peters turned to his guest.
One of these nights, if this grows on him, he will be massacring Emsworth in his bed." "My dear Horace!" The Bishop of Godalming's voice was properly horror-stricken; but there was a certain unctuous relish in it. "Take my word for it! Though, mind you, I don't say they aren't well suited. Everyone knows that Emsworth has been, to all practical intents and purposes, a dashed lunatic for years.
The other's digestive tribulations touched a ready chord. An excellent trencherman himself, he understood what Mr. Peters must suffer. "Too bad!" he said. Mr. Peters turned the conversation into other channels. "These are my scarabs," he said. Lord Emsworth adjusted his glasses, and the mild smile disappeared from his face, to be succeeded by a set look.
At this point the Earl of Emsworth, having done all the pottering possible in the restricted area, yawned like an alligator. "Now, my dear Baxter " he began querulously. Baxter was not listening. He was on the trail. He had caught sight of a small closet in the wall, next to the mantelpiece, and it had stimulated him. "What is in this closet?" "That closet, sir?" "Yes, this closet."
Each regarded the other with that feeling of perpetual amazement with which we encounter those whose whole viewpoint and mode of life is foreign to our own. The American's force and nervous energy fascinated Lord Emsworth. As for Mr. Peters, nothing like the earl had ever happened to him before in a long and varied life.
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