On second thoughts I tore the letter up and sent Mr. Bennett a postcard asking him to favour the undersigned with a call at 10.30 prompt. And at 10.30 prompt he came.
I had expected to see a bearded patriarch with a hooked nose and three hats on his head, but Mr. Bennett turned out to be a very spruce gentleman, wearing (I was sorry to see) much better clothes than the opera hat I proposed to sell him. He became businesslike at once.
"Just tell me what you want to sell," he said, whipping out a pocket–book, "and I'll make a note of it. I take anything."
I looked round my spacious apartment and wondered what to begin with.
"The revolving book–case," I announced.
"I'm afraid there's very little sale for revolving book–cases now," he said, as he made a note of it.
"As a matter of fact," I pointed out, "this one doesn't revolve. It got stuck some years ago."
He didn't seem to think that this would increase the rush, but he made a note of it.
"Then the writing–desk."
"The what?"
"The Georgian bureau. A copy of an old twentieth–century escritoire."
"Walnut?" he said, tapping it.
"Possibly. The value of this Georgian writing–desk, however, lies not in the wood but in the literary associations."
"Ah! My customers don't bother much about that, but still—whose was it?"
"Mine," I said with dignity, placing my hand in the breast pocket of my coat. "I have written many charming things at that desk. My 'Ode to a Bell–push,' my 'Thoughts on Asia,' my―"
"Anything else in this room?" said Mr. Bennett. "Carpet, curtains―"
"Nothing else," I said coldly.
We went into the bedroom and, gazing on the linoleum, my enthusiasm returned to me.
"The linoleum," I said, with a wave of the hand.
"Very much worn," said Mr. Bennett.
I called his attention to the piece under the bed.
"Not under there," I said. "I never walk on that piece. It's as good as new."
He made a note. "What else?" he said.
I showed him round the collection. He saw the Louis Quatorze curtain–rods, the cork bedroom suite, the Cæsarian nail–brush (quite bald), the antique shaving–mirror with genuine crack—he saw it all. And then we went back into the other rooms and found some more things for him.
"Yes," he said, consulting his note–book. "And now how would you like me to buy these?"
"At a large price," I said. "If you have brought your cheque–book I'll lend you a pen."
"You want me to make you an offer? Otherwise I should sell them by auction for you, deducting ten per cent commission."
"Not by auction," I said impulsively. "I couldn't bear to know how much, or rather how little, my Georgian bureau fetched. It was there, as I think I told you, that I wrote my Guide to the Round Pond. Give me an inclusive price for the lot, and never, never let me know the details."
He named an inclusive price. It was something under a hundred and fifty pounds. I shouldn't have minded that if it had only been a little over ten pounds. But it wasn't.
"Right," I agreed. "And, oh, I was nearly forgetting. There's an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship, which―"
"Ah, now, clothes had much better be sold by auction. Make a pile of all you don't want and I'll send round a sack for them. I have an auction sale every Wednesday."
"Very well. Send round to–morrow. And you might—er—also send round a—er—cheque for—quite so. Well, then, good morning."
When he had gone I went into my bedroom and made a pile of my opera hat. It didn't look very impressive—hardly worth having a sack specially sent round for it. To keep it company I collected an assortment of clothes. It pained me to break up my wardrobe in this way, but I wanted the bidding for my opera hat to be brisk, and a few preliminary suits would warm the public up. Altogether it was a goodly pile when it was done. The opera hat perched on the top, half of it only at work.
To–day I received from Mr. Bennett a cheque, a catalogue, and an account. The catalogue was marked "Lots 172–179." Somehow I felt that my opera hat would be Lot 176. I turned to it in the account.
"Lot 176—Six shillings."
"It did well," I said. "Perhaps in my heart of hearts I hoped for seven and sixpence, but six shillings—yes, it was a good hat."
And then I turned to the catalogue.
"Lot 176—Frock–coat and vest, dress–coat and vest, ditto, pair of trousers and opera hat."
"And opera hat." Well, well. At least it had the position of honour at the end. My opera hat was starred.
Lords Temporal
We have eight clocks, called after the kind people who gave them to us. Let me introduce you: William, Edward, Muriel, Enid, Alphonse, Percy, Henrietta, and John—a large family.
"But how convenient," said Celia. "Exactly one for each room."
"Or two in each corner of the drawing–room. I don't suggest it; I just throw out the idea."
"Which is rejected. How shall we arrange which goes into which room? Let's pick up. I take William for the drawing–room; you take John for your workroom; I take―"
"Not John," I said gently. John is― John overdoes it a trifle. There is too much of John; and he exposes his inside—which is not quite nice.
"Well, whichever you like. Come on, let's begin. William."
As it happened, I particularly wanted William. He has an absolutely noiseless tick, such as is suitable to a room in which work is to be done. I explained this to Celia.
"What you want for the drawing–room," I went on, "is a clock which ticks ostentatiously, so that your visitors may be reminded of the flight of time. Edward is a very loud breather. No guest could fail to notice Edward."
"William," said Celia firmly.
"William has a very delicate interior," I pleaded. "You could never attend to him properly. I have been thinking of William ever since we had him, and I feel that I understand his case."
"Very well," said Celia, with sudden generosity; "Edward. You have William; I have Alphonse for the dining–room; you have John for your bedroom; I have Enid for mine; you―"
"Not John," I said gently. To be frank, John is improper.
"Well, Percy, then."
"Yes, Percy. He is young and fair. He shall sit on the chest of drawers and sing to my sock–suspenders."
"Then Henrietta had better go in the spare room, and Muriel in Jane's."
"Muriel is much too good for Jane," I protested. "Besides, a servant wants an alarm clock to get her up in the morning."
"You forget that Muriel cuckoos. At six o'clock she will cuckoo exactly six times, and at the sixth 'oo' Jane brisks out of bed."
I still felt a little doubtful, because the early morning is a bad time for counting cuckoos, and I didn't see why Jane shouldn't brisk out at the seventh "oo" by mistake one day. However, Jane is in Celia's department, and if Celia was satisfied I was. Besides, the only other place for Muriel was the bathroom; and there is something about a cuckoo–clock in a bathroom which—well, one wants to be educated up to it.
"And that," said Celia gladly, "leaves the kitchen for John." John, as I think I have said, displays his inside in a lamentable way. There is too much of John.
"If Jane doesn't mind," I added. "She may have been strictly brought up."
"She'll love him. John lacks reserve, but he is a good time–keeper."