The Gentleman In the Parlour Read Online Free PDF Page B

acquainted with its art and literature. I could write a standard book on every country I have visited. I am a mine of information.’
    â€˜That is just what I was saying to myself. But what is the good of information that means nothing to you? Information for its own sake is like a flight of steps that leads to a blank wall.’
    â€˜I do not agree with you. Information for its own sake is like a pin you pick up and put in the lapel of your coator the piece of string that you untie instead of cutting and put away in a drawer. You never know when it will be useful.’
    And to show me that he did not choose his metaphors at random the Czecho-Slovak turned up the bottom of his stingah-shifter (which has no lapel) and showed me four pins in a neat row.

VI
    From Pagan, wishing to go to Mandalay, I took the steamer once more, and a couple of days before I arrived there, the boat tying up at a riverside village, I made up my mind to go ashore. The skipper told me that there was there a pleasant little club in which I had only to make myself at home; they were quite used to having strangers drop off like that from the steamer, and the secretary was a very decent chap; I might even get a game of bridge. I had nothing in the world to do, so I got into one of the bullock-carts that were waiting at the landscape-stage and was driven to the club. There was a man sitting on the verandah and as I walked up he nodded to me and asked whether I would have a whisky and soda or a gin and bitters. The possibility that I would have nothing at all did not even occur to him. I chose the longer drink and sat down. He was a tall, thin, bronzed man, with a big moustache, and he wore khaki shorts and a khaki shirt. I never knew his name, but when we had been chatting a little while another man came in who told me he was the secretary, and he addressed my friend as George.
    â€˜Have you heard from your wife yet?’ he asked him.
    The other’s eyes brightened.
    â€˜Yes, I had letters by this mail. She’s having no end of a time.’
    â€˜Did she tell you not to fret?’
    George gave a little chuckle, but was I mistaken in thinking that there was in it the shadow of a sob?
    â€˜In point of fact she did. But that’s easier said than done. Of course I know she wants a holiday, and I’m glad she should have it, but it’s devilish hard on a chap.’ He turned to me. ‘You see, this is the first time I’ve ever been separated from my missus, and I’m like a lost dog without her.’
    â€˜How long have you been married?’
    â€˜Five minutes.’
    The secretary of the club laughed.
    â€˜Don’t be a fool, George. You’ve been married eight years.’
    After we had talked for a little George, looking at his watch, said he must go and change his clothes for dinner and left us. The secretary watched him disappear into the night with a smile of not unkindly irony.
    â€˜We all ask him as much as we can now that he’s alone,’ he told me. ‘He mopes so terribly since his wife went home.’
    â€˜It must be very pleasant for her to know that her husband is as devoted to her as all that.’
    â€˜Mabel is a remarkable woman.’
    He called the boy and ordered more drinks. In this hospitable place they did not ask you if you would have anything; they took it for granted. Then he settled himself in his long chair and lit a cheroot. He told me the story of George and Mabel.
    They became engaged when he was home on leave, and when he returned to Burmah it was arranged that she should join him in six months. But one difficulty cropped up after another; Mabel’s father died, the war came, George was sent to a district unsuitable for a white woman; so that in the end it was seven years before she was able to start. He made all arrangements for the marriage, which was to take place on the day of her arrival, and went down to Rangoon to meether. On the morning on which