"Well, he is n't here," said Denry, shaking hands. "He must have missed his train or something. He can't possibly be here now till to-morrow.

But the house seems to be all ready for him...."

"Yes, my word! And how 's yourself, Mrs. Cotterill?" put in Mrs.

Machin.

"So we may as well look over it in its finished state. I suppose that's what he asked us up for," Denry concluded.

Mrs. Machin explained quickly and nervously that she had not been comprised in any invitation; that her errand was pure business.

"Come on up-stairs," Denry called out, turning switches and adding radiance to radiance.

"Denry!" his mother protested. "I 'm sure I don't know what Mr. and Mrs. Cotterill will think of you! You carry on as if you owned everything in the place. I wonder _at_ you!"

"Well," said Denry, "if anybody in this town is the owner's agent I am.

And Mr. Cotterill has built the blessed house. If Wilbraham wanted to keep his old shanty to himself he should n't send out invitations. It's simple enough not to send out invitations. Now Nellie!"

He was hanging over the bal.u.s.trade at the curve of the stairs.

The familiar ease with which he said "Now Nellie," and especially the spontaneity of Nellie's instant response, put new thoughts into the mind of Mrs. Machin. But she neither p.r.i.c.ked up her ears, nor started back, nor accomplished any of the acrobatic feats which an ordinary mother of a wealthy son would have performed under similar circ.u.mstances. Her ears did not even tremble. And she just said:

"I like this bal.u.s.trade k.n.o.b being of black china."

"Every k.n.o.b in the house is of black china," said Denry. "Never shows dirt. But if you should take it into your head to clean it, you can do it with a damp cloth in a second."

Nellie now stood beside him. Nellie had grown up since the Llandudno episode. She did not blush at a glance. When spoken to suddenly she could answer without torture to herself. She could, in fact, maintain a conversation without breaking down for a much longer time than, a few years ago, she had been able to skip without breaking down. She no longer imagined that all the people in the street were staring at her, anxious to find faults in her appearance. She had temporarily ruined the lives of several amiable and fairly innocent young men by refusing to marry them. (For she was pretty, and her father cut a figure in the town, though her mother did not.) And yet, despite the immense acc.u.mulation of her experiences and the weight of her varied knowledge of human nature, there was something very girlish and timidly roguish about her as she stood on the stairs near Denry, waiting for the elder generation to follow. The old Nellie still lived in her.

The party pa.s.sed to the first floor.

And the first floor exceeded the ground floor in marvels. In each bedroom two aluminum taps poured hot and cold water respectively into a marble basin, and below the marble basin was a sink. No porterage of water anywhere in the house. The water came to you, and every room consumed its own slops. The bedsteads were of black enamelled iron and very light. The floors were covered with linoleum, with a few rugs that could be shaken with one hand. The walls were painted with grey enamel.

Mrs. Cotterill, with her all-seeing eye, observed a detail that Mrs.

Machin had missed. There were no sharp corners anywhere. Every corner, every angle between wall and floor or wall and wall, was rounded, to facilitate cleaning. And every wall, floor, ceiling, and fixture could be washed, and all the furniture was enamelled and could be wiped with a cloth in a moment instead of having to be polished with three cloths and many odours in a day and a half. The bathroom was absolutely waterproof; you could spray it with a hose, and by means of a gas apparatus you could produce an endless supply of hot water independent of the general supply. Denry was apparently familiar with each detail of Mr. Wilbraham's manifold contrivances, and he explained them with an enormous gusto.

"Bless us!" said Mrs. Machin.

"Bless us!" said Mrs. Cotterill (doubtless the force of example).

They descended to the dining-room, where a supper table had been laid by order of the invisible Mr. Cecil Wilbraham. And there the ladies lauded Mr. Wilbraham's wisdom in eschewing silver. Everything of the table service that could be of earthenware was of earthenware. The forks and spoons were electro-plate.

"Why!" Mrs. Cotterill said, "I could run this house without a servant and have myself tidy by ten o'clock in a morning."

And Mrs. Machin nodded.

"And then when you want a regular turnout, as you call it," said Denry, "there's the vacuum cleaner."

The vacuum cleaner was at that period the last word of civilisation, and the first agency for it was being set up in Bursley. Denry explained the vacuum cleaner to the housewives, who had got no further than a Ewbank. And they again called down blessings on themselves.

"What price this supper?" Denry exclaimed. "We ought to eat it. I 'm sure he 'd like us to eat it. Do sit down, all of you. I 'll take the consequences."

Mrs. Machin hesitated even more than the other ladies.

"It's really very strange, him not being here!" She shook her head.

"Don't I tell you he 's quite mad," said Denry.

"I should n't think he was so mad as all that," said Mrs. Machin dryly.

"This is the most sensible kind of a house I 've ever seen."

"Oh! Is it?" Denry answered. "Great Scott! I never noticed those three bottles of wine on the sideboard."

At length he succeeded in seating them at the table. Thenceforward there was no difficulty. The ample and diversified cold supper began to disappear steadily, and the wine with it. And as the wine disappeared so did Mr. Cotterill (who had been pompous and taciturn) grow talkative, offering to the company the exact figures of the cost of the house and so forth. But ultimately the sheer joy of life killed arithmetic.

Mrs. Machin, however, could not quite rid herself of the notion that she was in a dream that outraged the proprieties. The entire affair, for an unromantic spot like Bursley, was too fantastically and wickedly romantic.

"We must be thinking about home, Denry," said she.

"Plenty of time," Denry replied. "What! All that wine gone! I 'll see if there 's any more in the sideboard."

He emerged, with a red face, from bending into the deeps of the enamelled sideboard, and a wine-bottle was in his triumphant hand. It had already been opened.

"Hooray!" he proclaimed, pouring a white wine into his gla.s.s and raising the gla.s.s: "Here 's to the health of Mr. Cecil Wilbraham."

He made a brave tableau in the brightness of the electric light.

Then he drank. Then he dropped the gla.s.s, which broke.

"Ugh! What's that?" he demanded, with the distorted features of a gargoyle.

His mother, who was seated next to him, seized the bottle. Denry's hand, in clasping the bottle, had hidden a small label, which said: "_Poison. Nettleship's Patent Enamel-Cleaning Fluid. One wipe does it._"

Confusion! Only Nellie Cotterill seemed to be incapable of realising that a grave accident had occurred. She had laughed throughout the supper, and she still laughed, hysterically, though she had drunk scarcely any wine. Her mother silenced her.

Denry was the first to recover.

"It 'll be all right," said he, leaning back in his chair. "They always put a bit of poison in those things. It can't hurt me, really. I never noticed the label."

Mrs. Machin smelt at the bottle. She could detect no odour, but the fact that she could detect no odour appeared only to increase her alarm.

"You must have an emetic instantly," she said.

"Oh, no!" said Denry. "I shall be all right." And he did seem to be suddenly restored.

"You must have an emetic instantly," she repeated.

"What can I have?" he grumbled. "You can't expect to find emetics here."

"Oh, yes, I can," said she. "I saw a mustard tin in a cupboard in the kitchen. Come along now, and don't be silly."

Nellie's hysteric mirth surged up again.