SIX SHORT STORIES by P. G. WODEHOUSE
SIX SHORT STORIES by P. G. WODEHOUSE
CUPID AND THE PAINT-BRUSH
Marjorie was sitting under the cedar on the tennis-lawn. It seemed to me that the best way of spending my morning would be to go and sit under the cedar on the tennis-lawn too.
“Good morning,” I said as I came up. I had seen her before, but “Good morning” is such an excellent conversational gambit.
“Good morning,” said Marjorie. She marked with a finger her place in the book she was reading, and tried to impress me with the idea that she was busy, but could give me two minutes if I had something of exceptional importance to say.
I declined to encourage this absurd attitude. I took away her book kindly but firmly, laid it down on the grass out of her reach, and began.
“Marjorie,” I said.
From constantly playing Juliet to my Romeo, Marjorie has developed a habit of reading my thoughts, which at times I find distinctly inconvenient.
“I should make you wretched,” she said.
“Not at all,” said I politely. “Besides, what are you doing now but making me wretched?”
“You don’t know what I’m like, really, or you wouldn’t —”
“Persevere? Of course I should. I know much better than you what’s good for you. Think how much older I am. We were made for one another.”
Marjorie appeared to ponder.
“Say the word,” I added encouragingly. Marjorie and I have known each other since I was in sailor suits.
“You’d hate the sight of me in a couple of years,” said she.
“By that time you would adore me so passionately that you wouldn’t notice it. I am an acquired taste; but once acquired, never lost.”
“You know it wouldn’t do, really.”
“May I ask why on earth not? I wish we could manage this affair without argument. I hate arguing.”
“So do I.”
“Then why argue? Agree with me — and all shall be forgiven.”
“Will it make you conceited if I tell you something?”
“Impossible.”
“Well, it isn’t you I object to. It’s the being married at all — just yet.” The last two words were added as a species of afterthought.
“Now, that is a concession. My suit, then, I take it, is practically smiled upon?”
“I knew it would make you conceited.”
“Not at all. Merely natural gratification. What is your objection to marriage in the abstract? Tell me the worst. Are you a woman with a mission?”
“Well, I suppose I am, in a way. I want to paint.”
“But —”
“I knew you would say that. Don’t be silly. I mean paint pictures, of course. You shouldn’t twist people’s meanings. It’s a very bad habit. Will you please pass me my book?”
I deliberately moved the inconvenient volume still further out of the way with my foot. Such a request at such a moment was simply impertinent, and I ignored it.
“Will you give me my book, please?”
“No. Couldn’t you go on painting when you were Mrs. Me?
“Of course not. I should get lazy.”
“We could work together. I also am an artist of peculiar merit.”
“You?”
“Decidedly. You didn’t see the comments of the Press on my last year’s Academy picture, then?”
“No. Did you?”
“No. That, however, was simply because there was no such picture. Painting, however, is a game which two can play at. Do you know what my initials are? R. A.”
“Well?”
“Well, if that is not an omen, what is an omen? Tell me that. Now, look here, Marjorie, we are going to make a sporting bargain. We will each paint a picture for the Academy this year, and whoever paints the better one has his or her (it is not likely to be her) way in the matter. Do you agree?”
“Who is to judge?”
“We will buttonhole the President and get his private opinion. Only you must not sign your name, of course. These Academicians, you know, they’d give the verdict to a lady without a second look. Now do you agree?”
“Very well. It’s very silly.”
“Silly! Good gracious! It’s a life and death matter to me. That is all I want to say. You may now go on reading that very worthless book. I’ve lost your place.”