Indiscretions of Archie - P. G. Wodehouse (essential books to read txt) 📗

think it’s time we hoisted it up somewhere.”

Lucille fiddled pensively with her coffee-spoon.

“Archie, dear,” she said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“And a very good thing to do,” said Archie. “I’ve often meant to do it myself when I got a bit of time.”

“About that picture, I mean. Did you know it was father’s birthday tomorrow?”

“Why no, old thing, I didn’t, to be absolutely honest. Your revered parent doesn’t confide in me much these days, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, it is. And I think we ought to give him a present.”

“Absolutely. But how? I’m all for spreading sweetness and light, and cheering up the jolly old pater’s sorrowful existence, but I haven’t a bean. And, what is more, things have come to such a pass that I scan the horizon without seeing a single soul I can touch. I suppose I could get into Reggie van Tuyl’s ribs for a bit, but⁠—I don’t know⁠—touching poor old Reggie always seems to me rather like potting a sitting bird.”

“Of course, I don’t want you to do anything like that. I was thinking⁠—Archie, darling, would you be very hurt if I gave father the picture?”

“Oh, I say!”

“Well, I can’t think of anything else.”

“But wouldn’t you miss it most frightfully?”

“Oh, of course I should. But you see⁠—father’s birthday⁠—”

Archie had always thought Lucille the dearest and most unselfish angel in the world, but never had the fact come home to him so forcibly as now. He kissed her fondly.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “You really are, you know! This is the biggest thing since jolly old Sir Philip What’s-his-name gave the drink of water to the poor blighter whose need was greater than his, if you recall the incident. I had to sweat it up at school, I remember. Sir Philip, poor old bean, had a most ghastly thirst on, and he was just going to have one on the house, so to speak, when⁠ ⁠… but it’s all in the history books. This is the sort of thing Boy Scouts do! Well, of course, it’s up to you, queen of my soul. If you feel like making the sacrifice, right-o! Shall I bring the pater up here and show him the picture?”

“No, I shouldn’t do that. Do you think you could get into his suite tomorrow morning and hang it up somewhere? You see, if he had the chance of⁠—what I mean is, if⁠—yes, I think it would be best to hang it up and let him discover it there.”

“It would give him a surprise, you mean, what?”

“Yes.”

Lucille sighed inaudibly. She was a girl with a conscience, and that conscience was troubling her a little. She agreed with Archie that the discovery of the Wigmore Venus in his artistically furnished suite would give Mr. Brewster a surprise. Surprise, indeed, was perhaps an inadequate word. She was sorry for her father, but the instinct of self-preservation is stronger than any other emotion.

Archie whistled merrily on the following morning as, having driven a nail into his father-in-law’s wallpaper, he adjusted the cord from which the Wigmore Venus was suspended. He was a kindhearted young man, and, though Mr. Daniel Brewster had on many occasions treated him with a good deal of austerity, his simple soul was pleased at the thought of doing him a good turn, He had just completed his work and was stepping cautiously down, when a voice behind him nearly caused him to overbalance.

“What the devil?”

Archie turned beamingly.

“Hullo, old thing! Many happy returns of the day!”

Mr. Brewster was standing in a frozen attitude. His strong face was slightly flushed.

“What⁠—what⁠—?” he gurgled.

Mr. Brewster was not in one of his sunniest moods that morning. The proprietor of a large hotel has many things to disturb him, and today things had been going wrong. He had come up to his suite with the idea of restoring his shaken nerve system with a quiet cigar, and the sight of his son-in-law had, as so frequently happened, made him feel worse than ever. But, when Archie had descended from the chair and moved aside to allow him an uninterrupted view of the picture, Mr. Brewster realised that a worse thing had befallen him than a mere visit from one who always made him feel that the world was a bleak place.

He stared at the Venus dumbly. Unlike most hotel-proprietors, Daniel Brewster was a connoisseur of Art. Connoisseuring was, in fact, his hobby. Even the public rooms of the Cosmopolis were decorated with taste, and his own private suite was a shrine of all that was best and most artistic. His tastes were quiet and restrained, and it is not too much to say that the Wigmore Venus hit him behind the ear like a stuffed eel-skin.

So great was the shock that for some moments it kept him silent, and before he could recover speech Archie had explained.

“It’s a birthday present from Lucille, don’t you know.”

Mr. Brewster crushed down the breezy speech he had intended to utter.

“Lucille gave me⁠—that?” he muttered.

He swallowed pathetically. He was suffering, but the iron courage of the Brewsters stood him in good stead. This man was no weakling. Presently the rigidity of his face relaxed. He was himself again. Of all things in the world he loved his daughter most, and if, in whatever mood of temporary insanity, she had brought herself to suppose that this beastly daub was the sort of thing he would like for a birthday present, he must accept the situation like a man. He would on the whole have preferred death to a life lived in the society of the Wigmore Venus, but even that torment must be endured if the alternative was the hurting of Lucille’s feelings.

“I think I’ve chosen a pretty likely spot to hang the thing, what?” said Archie cheerfully. “It looks well alongside those Japanese prints, don’t you think? Sort of stands out.”

Mr. Brewster licked his dry lips and grinned a ghastly grin.

“It does stand out!” he agreed.

XXVI A Tale of a Grandfather

Archie was not a man who readily allowed