“To Judas Iscariot.” (Smash went the egg!)
Sabre said feebly—he could not handle
his arguments—“Well, anyway, ’always
with us’—there you are. If you’re
going to create a place where life is going to be
lived as it should be lived, I don’t see how
you’re going to shut the poor out of it.
Aren’t they a part of life? They’ve
got as much right to get away from mean streets and
ugly surroundings as we have—and a jolly
sight more need. Always with us. It doesn’t
matter tuppence whom it was said to.”
“It happens,” pronounced Mr. Boom Bagshaw,
“to matter a great deal more than tuppence.
It happens to knock the bottom clean out of your argument.
It was addressed to the Iscariot because the Iscariot
was trying to do just what you are trying to do.
He was trying to make duty to the poor an excuse for
grudging service to Christ. Now, listen, Sabre.
If people thought a little less about their duty towards
the poor and a little more about their duty towards
themselves, they would be in a great deal fitter state
to help their fellow creatures, poor or rich.
That is what the Garden Home is to do for those who
live in it, and that is what the Garden Home is going
to do.”
He stabbed sharply with the butt of a dessert knife
on the dessert plate which had just been placed before
him. The plate split neatly into two exact halves.
He gazed at them sulkily, put them aside, drew another
plate before him, and remarked to Mabel:
“You know we are moving into the vicarage to-morrow?
We are giving an At Home to-morrow week. You
will come.”
The plural pronoun included his mother. He was
intensely celibate.
The day ended in a blazing row.
In the afternoon Mr. Boom Bagshaw carried off Mabel
to view the progress of the Garden Home. While
they dallied over coffee at the luncheon table, Sabre
was fidgeting for Bagshaw to be gone. Mabel, operating
dexterously behind the blue flame of a spirit lamp,
Low Jinks hovering around in well-trained acolyte
performances, said, “Now I rather pride myself
on my Turkish coffee, Mr. Boom Bagshaw.”
Mr. Bagshaw, who appeared to pride himself at least
as much on his characteristics, replied by sulkily
looking at his watch; and a moment later by sulkily
taking a cup, rather as if he were a schoolboy bidden
to take lemonade when mannishly desirous of shandygaff,
and sulkily remarking, “I must go.”
Sabre fidgeted to see the words put into action.
He wanted Bagshaw to be off. He wanted to resume
his sudden intention of remedying his normal relations
with Mabel and the afternoon promised better than the
intention had thus far seen. That niggling over
the unexpectedness of his return,—well,
of course it was unexpected and upsetting of her household
routine; but the unexpectedness was over and the letter
incident over, and Mabel, thanks to her guest, delightfully
mooded. Good, therefore, for the afternoon.
When the dickens was this chap going?
