I. A. R. Wylie

“ The duchess started. Euphemistically speaking, she had been daydreaming—and she was correspondingly anxious to seem wide awake. She sat up straighter and shook back the precious lace that hung over her small, white, beautifully jeweled hands.
“It's the life we lead,” she said energetically. “Is there any one in this country who works for the public good as we do? Look at me—a wedding to-day, the St. James' bazaar to-morrow, the new mission hall on Friday, a christening on Saturday! There's simply no rest. ”

“ All that one can do is to relate the incredible facts. The duchess went out on to the street. She walked down the street and up another street, looking for the injured Mr. Baines, and meeting not so much as a policeman. She enjoyed the sensation. And when she came back, she found the garden gate shut and bolted.
Obviously, the situation, for a duchess, was awkward. To have to go round to the front entrance and explain to the big footman that she had been wandering the streets in a plaid cape and shawl was painful, to stay indefinitely on the wrong side of the garden door impossible. ”

“ The duchess sank gracefully into Sir John's Chesterfield—a rather astonishing feat, seeing that she was very small and the Chesterfield of masculine dimensions, but then the duchess had never been ungraceful in her life.
“It's a very trying wedding,” she said. “Weddings are not what they used to be. There is no repose—no solemnity—no grace about them. They are vulgar—almost rowdy. ”

“ She was talking through the detested instrument, and the duchess, without the slightest intention of eavesdropping, stopped to listen.
“Why, of course I'll come,” said the Lady Angela. “Robert, you are a duffer! Why shouldn't I? Oh, no, it's no use asking mother. I never do. She's an old darling, but you can't expect her to understand. Autre temps, outre moeurs—that's French. So long, till Tuesday, then.”
She hung up the receiver, and the duchess entered, closing the door firmly in the face of a large footman. ”

“ The beautiful room, with its Louis XVI. furniture and brocaded curtains, stifled her. The gold ornaments on her dressing table by the window unaccountably added to her irritation. She picked up a novel and could not read it. She tried to rest and failed even to close her eyes for two minutes. Finally, obeying another irrational impulse, she pulled aside the curtains and opened the windows.
After that she felt easier. The room was on the ground floor and looked out on to a garden that, as London gardens go, was of quite respectable dimensions. ”

“ He thinks duchesses out of date—almost immoral. Not you in particular, darling, but all of us. He thinks I'm a brand from the burning.” She laughed. “You mustn't be upset. You think you're all right—don't you?—and that's all that matters.”
The duchess said nothing, having nothing to say. One cannot reply satisfactorily to the babblings of a lunatic. But she was annoyed. The Lady Angela continued to soothe her aggravatingly.
“Wedding go off well, mummy?”
“Very well,” stiffly.
“That's good. Dear old Sir John as beautiful as ever? Such a gentleman! ”

“ Elderly persons in plaid shawls and dissipated-looking bonnets lowered their voices as they approached the counter. Young things remarkable for “curlers” on week days and corkscrews and feathers on Sundays dropped their pertness a they crossed the threshold. Goodness knows how many times the turnips and the comforters and all the rest of the shop's contents had to listen to the hoarsely whispered question, “And 'ow's the missus, Mr. Baines?” ”

“ You've got white 'air, but you've a face like a girl. Old! Why, you ain't even grown up. Never been properly alive—never 'ad a breath of fresh air—never been out and jostled with real, livin' 'uman bein's. I'll lay a 'undred to one you've never so much as been on a bus.”
“Never!” said the duchess regretfully. She regarded Mr. Baines with growing kindness.
“That's it. You don't know what life is. You don't know what real people are. You ain't old. It ain't years that matter—it's the livin' of them. ”

“ Timothy Baines shifted his position. He bent forward, scrutinizing her face with a curiosity greater than his terror.
“You're the duchess, ain't you?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Well, then—wot I wants with you”—he brought his fist down with a cautious emphasis on the polished dressing table—“wot I wants is a straight talk with yer 'ighness. I've risked a lot for it, and I means to 'ave it. So now you knows.”
One thing she did know—the man was obviously insane, and the knowledge did not particularly comfort her. A thief you can bribe. A lunatic has to be humored on his own lines. ”

“ I.—The Duchess and the Daffodils IT was the spring that began it. The spring is responsible for so many things—bad poetry, measles, love at first sight, and other painful human epidemics included—and it was undoubtedly responsible for the conduct of certain otherwise highly respectable members of society. The fact that the chief personage concerned was a duchess is surely evidence enough in support of the latter statement, because whatever a duchess does must be, in the nature of things, respectable. ”

“ Timothy Baines' open hand became a clenched fist
“You're a vampire feedin' on us poor!” he stuttered.
“My dear man——”
“You are——”
“I am nothing of the sort. It's the idiotic way you—you people have of thinking. We—we spend our lives in your service. Only last week I gave a reading room to my village—and a—a mission hall.”
“Takin' money from us to give us things we don't want, that's wot it is! Takin' my shop to give some poor devils a readin' room and a mission 'all!” He laughed ferociously. “'Oo wants mission 'alls?' he demanded.
“I—I really don't know,” said the duchess. ”

“ An elderly gentleman with an iron-gray mustache, a military carriage, and a certain tendency to embonpoint, occupied the hearth, and a high-backed chair set off to their best advantage the slender figure and the faded golden hair of a widow in elegant, unrelieved mourning. ”

“ A lady in a bonnet with a somewhat bedraggled osprey bumped up against the duchess and apologized.
“Awful, ain't it?”
“What's awful?” asked the duchess, vaguely wondering how she was ever going to explain to James. “What's happened?”
“Lor', ain't yer heard? Some one's been murdered. They 'eard the screams—and there's blood hall over the place.”
“And the crooks 'ave got away with the goods,” added a neighbor with admiration. “There was a hawful struggle. The door was locked, and the maids 'eard the screams. When they broke down the door, the corpse 'ad gone.” ”

“ Then all three thought of national insurance and old-age pensions, and how the vitality of the country was being sapped by a coddling democracy, and how poverty was the hotbed of other people's virtues. ”

“ He would ask inane questions of a phlegmatic nurse, and murmur playful, emotion-wrought incoherences over the patient. He was a highly strung little man, and his customers had to bear with him that day. They rattled their pennies on the counter and were discreetly oblivious to the short weight that he gave them in his confusion. For in the general upheaval, inherited instinct got the better of a natural integrity and, besides, if a mistake had to be made, it must obviously not be to the disadvantage of the wailing “& Son” upstairs. ”

“ That's wot I am—a socialist. And socialists wear red ties.”
“It ain't respectable,” Mrs. Baines murmured huskily. “Socialists ain't respectable.”
“'Oo cares?” muttered Mr. Baines under his breath.
Mrs. Baines did not hear him, and she was too weak to argue. Mr. Baines came over on tiptoe and kissed her. Her commonplace brown eyes opened and brightened tenderly.
“Goin' out, Tim?”
“Just for a bit. Don't you worry if I'm late.”
“Goin' to see a pal?”
“Well—not a pal exactly.” He gave a dry little laugh. “I'm goin' to pay a sort o' surprise call on a duchess. That's all. ”

“ Mr. Baines obeyed. Having “thought a bit” he went behind the counter. He felt safer there. He was shaking in every limb. A dry, nameless fear clutched at his throat. But he remained ironic.
“And 'oo gave this 'ere land to the duchess?” he asked.
“Henry VIII.——” Mr. Hewell began.
“One of 'is wives, no doubt,” sneered Mr. Baines. Then he suddenly lost his nerve. He banged the counter with his fist in an access of terror. “We've made this 'ere business,” he shouted. “We Bainsees 'ave made it. If a man makes a thing, it's 'is, ain't it?” ”

“ But 'e's a liar. Look ere!” He flung out his hand under the duchess' nose. “A 'undred years ago, it was just a scrubby bit of common—no good to you or anybody. My grandfather bought it—leased it. 'E built the shop. 'E took it. My father, 'e went on with it, 'E added on the hegg department. 'E took up with the groceries, You might say 'e made the neighborhood. People came from far and wide. Every one knew us. It was Baines for this and Baines for that and Baines for every think. When me father was dyin', 'e said to me, 'Tim, you keep the old shop goin'!' An' I swore I would. ”