When Greek Meets Greek

ILLUSTRATED BY J. H. THORPE

MY BONDHAM, though far stronger than most horses, was beginning to feel ill with anxiety, for it was now within three days of the date fixed for Mrs. Foxinglove's fancy-dress Elizabethan Fair, and still no invitation had arrived for her from the infamous Theodosia. It could not be that a temporary lapse of memory had caused Theodosia to forget her existence, as she had received plenty of reminders. For the last week Amy had been deluging her with hospitalities: she had asked her to lunch, tea, dinner and supper, all of which Mrs, Foxinglove had refused with regrets. Amy had even so far humbled herself as to get a mutual friend to ask Mrs. Foxinglove whether she, Amy, was coming to the Elizabethan Fair, and she had replied, firmly and perhaps ironically, that it was no use trying to get hold of Amy, as she was always solidly engaged for weeks ahead. But as the Foxinglove had asked the people she wanted to secure months ahead, this was a very paltry excuse.

To the ordinary mind, such a speech must have seemed final, but then Amy had not an ordinary mind. She meant to go to the Elizabethan Fair, and what to others spelled "Defeat" spelled to her "Try again and harder." In fact, at this melancholy moment she had just tried again. She had written a sweet little note to dearest Theodosia, asking her to come and dine quite quietly with her and her husband on June 18th, which was the night of the Fair, and the answer had come back that dearest Theodosia was out of town that night. Amy read into that mendacious message contempt and an iron determination not to yield. But then Amy was determined too.

For the moment she had winced when these words came pattering into the telephone in the voice of Mrs. Foxinglove's butler, and she had an impulse to give up, to leave town for a day or two till the party was over, and perhaps put in the social columns of the leading journals that she had been unavoidably prevented from going to it. That would be quite true, the unavoidable impediment being the absence of an invitation. But her indomitable spirit revolted from the thought of retreat: to quit London would be equivalent to leaving the enemy in possession of the field, and the thought of that steeled her again.

Certainly Theodosia Foxinglove had behaved atrociously, and Amy resolved never to call her Theodosia again. She and Amy were, so to speak, twin dewdrops, for they both devoted their whole pellucid energies to the aspiring art of social climbing; and when, only a year ago, Mrs. Foxinglove had left Chicago, where she found it very difficult to rise, and appeared in London, Amy had done a great deal for her, for she had had two years' start, and was chirping away quite high up, while the Foxinglove was still nowhere. She had constantly invited her to her house, she had introduced her to five members of Parliament, two Earls, a prize-fighter, four distinguished literary people, a film-star, a Bolshevist, and a Marquis. There were many others, too, whom she did not trouble to enumerate to herself, but all these she remembered without an effort. At first Mrs. Foxinglove had shown no signs of the cloven-hoof; she had indeed behaved very fairly, and several of the brightest butterflies that to-day refreshed themselves at Amy's hospitable board, had been netted by her at Mrs. Foxinglove's house. That was as it should be; that was part of the code of honour that ought to prevail among climbers, and in fact up to the beginning of this season the two had hunted in couples with most gratifying success. But then, it must be supposed, success had gone to Mrs. Foxinglove's head; she began kicking down the ladders which had enabled her to attain eminence, and among these ladders (not, it is true, a very lofty one, but one that had most emphatically given her a foothold on the lower branches of the great tree of Social Success) was Amy. Indeed, that telephone message she had just received was more than a mere ignoring of her: it was a definite act of hostility and insult. Mrs. Foxinglove had "made a face" at her when she had replied that she would not be in London on the night which everyone knew was the night of the Elizabethan Fair. Of course, Amy, when she asked her to dinner then, had known also that she could not come, but that was not the same thing as telling a lie....

The telephone that had conveyed this withering message tinkled again, and Amy sprang to it. The Foxinglove might have seen the error of her ways, and even at this eleventh hour have repented, in which case Amy was prepared to call her Theodosia again. But it was only something about grape-fruit, and the thought of eating made Amy feel quite unwell. "She is a snake," she thought to herself, "in Grosvenor Square." Then she pulled herself together, and sat down to concentrate as to how to get to that large reptile-house on the evening of the 18th. She would not give up, she would not retreat into the country, she would not even pretend that she had been asked and had refused. She would go.

At that very moment Theodosia Foxinglove, having emitted that spurt of malice on Amy through her butler, was also concentrating. Though the Elizabethan Fair had been boomed at staggering expense in the social columns of every important journal in London, and a perfect galaxy of distinguished people had promised to adorn it, it still lacked the crowning splendour of being one at which orders would be worn. She longed, as with burning thirst, to curtsy to somebody in her own house, and at present she had not secured anybody to curtsy to. Quite a little curtsy would do to begin with, but she desperately wanted to bring curtsying into her domestic circle. So there she was inspecting the ball-room of her house, which had been transformed into an Elizabethan market-place, with stalls all round it (where her guests could take little trifles, such as gold match-boxes and turquoise brooches, without paying for them) and a dais of seats at one end, violently concentrating as to how to get hold of a Highness. Though all that was otherwise brightest and best in London was coming to the fair, the Foxinglove had still an empty feeling....

Amy dined quietly at home that night alone with her pink, plump devoted Christopher. There was a party or two she could go on to if she wished, but she really did not feel up to it, for though hundreds of friends would be there, the Foxinglove might be among them, and in any case there would be a good deal of talk about the Elizabethan Fair, and that would make her feel faint. So she stopped at home with her Christopher, kind good Christopher. He knew how madly she longed to go to the Fair, for he took the profoundest pride in her social successes, and was much depressed at the way things were going. He had, in fact, anxiously asked her just now if she had "managed" it.

This phrasing did not please Amy.

"I don't know what you mean by 'managing' it," she said. "I should like to go: I've never denied that. But if you think I would stir a finger to get asked, you are quite wrong."

"Well, well," said Christopher soothingly. "Then that's that. I see. Proper pride: just so. I only meant, darling, that I knew you could get asked in a minute, if you cared to put your wits a-work."

"How?" asked Amy eagerly, forgetting that she wouldn't stir a finger.

"Oh, somehow or other," said he. "Trust you for not being beaten."

Amy sighed. This was disappointing, for she hoped that Christopher might have an idea. He did sometimes.

"Well, I'm not going to think about it any more," said she. "I shall like to have a quiet evening: I'm sure I get one seldom enough. Tell me the news."

Christopher was skimming the evening paper. There was some melodramatic news about the franc which interested him, but he instantly turned over to the page that would interest Amy.

"Great to-do at the Flower Show to-day," he said. "The whole world seems to have been there. Princess Isabel opened it ... dukes and duchesses and delphiniums ... the Prime Minister, Mrs. Foxinglove"

"She would be," said Amy, suddenly boiling over again. "I can see her trying to get introduced to the Princess. How people push and shove!"

"Perhaps she knows her already," said Christopher.

"Not she! She would have put it in the paper that the Princess was among those who had received an invitation to the Fair. Besides, I always distrust that. To receive an invitation means nothing. I might as well give a party and say that Julius Cæsar had received an invitation. All stuff! Also I know that Theodosia, I mean Mrs. Foxinglove, would give one, if not both her eyes, to get her."

"She plays the violin very finely I'm told—the Princess, I mean," said Christopher, leading the way gently off the agonising subject.

"Does she?" asked Amy languidly.

There was silence. Amy, a little exhausted by her outburst, sat with half-closed eyes, miserably conscious that in forty-eight hours from now the Fair would be in full swing, and she not there. "But what does it matter?" she asked herself, and her heart replied to her that it mattered a great deal. Then suddenly she sprang up: a perfectly wonderful idea had come into her head. Whence or how it came she had no notion: she was content to consider it an inspiration.

"I've got a note to write," she said, and hurried to her table.

The note seemed difficult to compose. Christopher heard the crumple or two or three sheets consigned to the waste-paper basket. But presently it was done.

"Has the last post gone?" she asked. "Then it must be taken. Ring the bell, dear."

Christopher looked over her shoulder as she scribbled "By hand" in the corner, and saw to whom it was addressed.

"Aha! I knew you would manage something," he said, "if you cared to give a thought to it."

Just one half-hour afterwards Mrs. Foxinglove arrived at her own door after a little dinner-party she had been giving at the Splendid, at which she had experienced a snub. One of her thirty-three guests happened to be of the household of Princess Isabel, and though the Foxinglove did not know this guest at all, as he had been brought by somebody else, she thought she saw a chance. But it was no good: Princess Isabel, he knew, was dining out on the 18th, and—here he became slightly apologetic—she seldom if ever went to houses she did not know. The baffled Foxinglove therefore came home in a morose mood.

There was her post lying on the hall-table, and on the top a note just left by hand. She recognised the writing, and wondered at the persistence of Some People. Her first impulse was to tear it up without troubling to open it, but it might be amusing to see what fresh assault the impotent Amy proposed to deliver. So she tore it open, and a moment after sat down, with a gasp of astonishment, on a hard hall-chair with a coronet on the back. The note from impotent Amy ran as follows:—




 * "This is just to confirm my telephone, and to say how charmed and honoured I shall be to expect you to dinner on Thursday. And what a treat to know that you will bring your violin! Indeed, I will follow your Royal Highness's wishes and have no party at all. I am not 'going on' anywhere afterwards; it will be so lovely.
 * "Your Royal Highness's
 * " Most obedient and delighted servant,

"."

Foxinglove produced a hard short noise in her throat like a death-rattle, and then began the dreadful business of concentration again. What had happened was perfectly clear to her lucid mind. Amy had enclosed the wrong note in the right envelope, and, by inference, she had sent the other note to a Royal Highness. The inference was quite wrong, but the upshot was that a Royal Highness who played the violin, and was thus at once identified, was dining with Amy quietly on the night when Foxinglove had told Amy she would be out of town, but was in reality holding the Elizabethan Fair to which she was determined Amy should not come. But instantly the longing for a Royal Highness swamped the determination to exclude Amy, and without pause she seized the telephone, and rang up that obscure number in South Kensington. She would eat humble pie, she would drink the water of affliction, but she must be careful not to let slip that she knew that Princess Isabel was dining with Amy. How people pushed and shoved!...

There was a long pause, and the lady at the Exchange said she would call "them" again. At last—

"Is that my Amy?" cooed Foxinglove. "You dear thing, how are you? I've just got home, and now I'm lying grovelling"

"What are you doing?" asked Amy, who had heard perfectly.

"Grovelling," said Foxinglove. "Dust and ashes, can you hear me? I've made two quite awful mistakes, and I can't think what you'll say to me. First, my stupid butler told you I was out of town when you so kindly asked me to dine on the eighteenth, and I thought it was the nineteenth you said. I'm here all right on the eighteenth, but, alas! I can't dine as I've got a little party that night."

"Ah, yes," said Amy. "Of course, I quite understand. Such a natural mistake."

"And my second mistake is even worse," said this remarkable liar, "for I find that my stupid secretary hasn't asked you to it. I can't make out how it happened. Now do forgive me and come."

It was Amy's turn to say "Alas!"

"Alas!" she said, "there's a friend dining with me that night. Just proposed herself. And we shall be having a little music, as she plays the violin, and I don't really know when"

"But you won't go on making music till four in the morning," interrupted Foxinglove. "Come in after your old tunes. And bring your friend. Always delighted to see any friend of my Amy's. Who is your friend?"

Amy's irritating laughter tickled Foxinglove's ear.

"Oh, just a friend," she said. "I'm sure you don't know her."

That was a nasty one, and Foxinglove winced.

"Well, bring her along for an hour," she repeated. "But anyhow, come yourself. Promise! And your friend, too: ever so welcome. Ring her up to-morrow, whoever she is, and say how pleased I shall be: Elizabethan Fair: fancy-dress."

"Sweet of you," said Amy.

"And forgive my secretary's mistake, dear," said Foxinglove.

"Why, of course," said Amy genially. "But you'll forgive me, won't you, if I can't manage to look in? If it's fancy dress, I'm afraid"

"Fancy-dress optional," said Foxinglove. "And indeed I shan't forgive you and your friend if you don't come. I shall feel real bad about it."

Amy managed to go to the Elizabethan Fair, for she had her fancy-dress all ready in case. She arrived quite alone, rather late. The galaxy of fashion which had assembled for the Fair was sitting watching a Morris dance of highly decorative Elizabethan yokels. The Foxinglove, whom nobody could mistake for anyone but Queen Elizabeth, hurried towards the door with all her pearls a-jingle as her name was bawled out, and they kissed affectionately.

"And your friend?" asked Foxinglove.

"Couldn't persuade her," said Amy.