The Missing Angel by Erle Cox (lightest ebook reader TXT) 📕

When, acting under his wife’s most explicit instructions, Tydvil had

dressed early that evening, he found Amy was earlier, and was awaiting

his arrival in the drawing-room. As he caught sight of her, Tydvil’s eyes

opened widely. Never since he had known her had Amy worn anything but

some shade of grey. Amy appeared to think it was the chosen colour of the

virtuous—something that marked her as one apart from the world, the

flesh, and the devil. Now, she was wearing mauve—mauve relieved by

violet. Moreover, it was cut at the neck quite two inches lower than

anything that Tydvil had even seen on her. But, even so, the strictest

critic could not have classed the revelation as daring. Great as was

Tydvil’s surprise, it would have been greater had he known that a harried

dressmaker had kept four girls at work all night so that it would be

finished in time for that night’s dinner.

Tydvil mentally admitted that he had never seen her look more

presentable. The frock had been compiled by an artist. The compliment he

paid her was not very well received. Amy said that she was sorry she had

bought it. It made her look rather more conspicuous than she cared to be.

It was a concession to fashion that she should not have made. Having put

Tydvil in his place, she looked him over critically, straightened a tie

that did not need straightening, and suggested it was about time he

procured another dinner jacket. A man in his position should be well

dressed. For her part, her dress was never more than a secondary

consideration. “I always say, that if a woman respects herself, others

respect her. Dress does not matter.” Tydvil reflected that it was quite

true that she always said that. He had heard her say it two or three

times a week for ten years or more.

“Who are you putting at my end?” he asked when the inspection was over.

To him, his neighbours at the table were a matter of importance.

“You will take in Mrs. Blomb.” Tydvil gritted his teeth. Mrs. Blomb had

very large teeth, a scraggy neck, a reputation as a platform speaker, and

she gushed. “On the other side you will have Mr. Arthur Muskat.” This

announcement caused Tydvil some difficulty in suppressing a word that

would have startled Amy. It was one he had heard in the thick of the

previous night’s finale in Exhibition Street, and its force was only

exceeded by its extreme vulgarity. Muskat was his second best aversion,

and the Secretary of the Moral Uplift Society. He was large of face and

body, spoke in grunts, ate largely, and made unpleasant sounds during

mastication.

He detested only one man more, and that was Arthur’s brother Edwin, who

was a fanatical prohibition advocate. Edwin and Arthur were much alike,

only Edwin added to the other’s lack of attractiveness a smugness and a

pose of righteousness that always gave rise in Tydvil to a longing to

assault him. So that when Amy said, “I am putting Mr. Edwin Muskat

opposite Mr. Senior, because they are both so devoted to the one great

cause,” Tydvil found himself both sympathetic on Senior’s behalf and at

the same time grimly amused. He became still more amused when he heard

that, beside having his hostess to talk to, Mr. Senior would make the

acquaintance of Mrs. Caton Ridgegay. She was a lady whom Mr. Ripley would

have rejected as impossible and unbelievable, both in aspect and for a

capacity for sustained speech composed of windy inanities.

“And now, Tydvil,” went on Amy, impressively, “I wish you to show the

very greatest consideration to Mr. Senior. He is not only a man of

remarkable attainments and distinction, but he has most constructive

plans for a prohibition campaign. I need hardly remind you that at Home a

man with such friends as the Archbishop of Canterbury must be a personage

of considerable importance. I feel sure you cannot but benefit by

cultivating his acquaintance and friendship.”

“Very well,” Tydvil agreed. “I have no doubt he is all that you say.” His

feeling of depression regarding his prospects for the evening ordeal

increased in intensity as it drew nearer. Mentally he reviewed the other

guests.

There was the Rev. George Claire, who had the gift of making every topic

on which he conversed intolerably boring; his wife, Augusta, whom twenty

years of married life with the Rev. George had bereft of speech and

reason, if she ever possessed any, and Mrs. Claire’s sister, Miss Eva

Merrywood. Apart from Nicholas, of their eight guests the only one who

offered any prospects but exasperation was Miss Merrywood. She was a

determined female whose hobby, was slums. Her theory was that the only

way to awaken the public conscience was to tell the unvarnished truth

about slums. This she did, and did it frankly. Her uncensored gleanings,

described in plain language with blank unconcern, had staggered many a

pious gathering. Tydvil was wondering if he could, by some happy chance,

draw her out.

Sometimes he felt that Amy could read his thoughts, for at that moment

she broke in on him. “I wish you particularly, to watch Eva Merrywood,

Tydvil dear. I would not have invited her, but I wanted the vicar and

Augusta, and could not very well leave her out.”

“Do you expect me to gag her?” asked Tydvil truculently.

“That is both absurd and vulgar, Tydvil,” Amy snapped. “Eva means well,

but you know how indiscreet she can be. Just try to change the

conversation if necessary. Dear Eva is so very earnest that I am afraid

Mr. Senior might not understand.”

“Ump!” Tydvil reassured her. “Anyone who can fail to understand Miss

Merry wood’s stories would need to be pretty dull. Your Mr. Senior would

be lucky if he could misunderstand them.”

“Sometimes, Tydvil dear, I think you try to provoke me purposely. I have

been trying to forget your conduct during the past few days…”

“Mrs. Blomb,” announced a maid from the door.

For the first time since he had met her, Tydvil welcomed the presence of

Mrs. Blomb. He returned her greeting politely and stood aside watching

her take in Amy’s costume in gulps. She grasped a hand of Amy in each of

her own, and exclaimed in her platform voice, “Amy!—dear! How truly

charming. Quite Parisian, really!” Turning her face to Tydvil, “You must

be proud of our dear Amy, Mr. Jones, now, confess!”

Tydvil modestly admitted the impeachment and was relieved from further

violation of his conscience by the arrival of the two Muskats. He was

well out of the frying pan into the middle of the fire, because Arthur

Muskat deftly cornered him and, in a series of throaty and nasal sounds,

poured out his gratitude to Tydvil