IN spite of this mental turmoil Edward Albert slept profoundly that night, and the next morning he woke still extremely perplexed but refreshed and feeling much more able to cope with this difficult world. As he had nothing better to do he went for a walk in Regent’s Park and sat down almost on the very seat on which he had discussed his future with Evangeline eight or nine days before. And regardless of the tragedy of the previous day he found himself regretting her acutely.
For nearly two weeks she had subjected him to a regime of unprecedented mental massage, she had anointed him with flattery and endearment, and abruptly he was exposed to this cold and disillusioning world again. And the affair of yesterday was taking on a new appearance. Whatever happened he’d had it and done it. He was a, man. He no longer peeped and peered at the girls and women going by. Their last secret was his. He looked at them appraisingly. But none of them, he realised, was quite like Evangeline. And the very violence aid extravagance of his reaction against her made him feel he had by no means finished with her.
What was to be done about it? Walk about a bit. Have a look at the shops down Regent Street. Get a snack somewhere. Wait for something to happen.
In the afternoon he had an unanticipated visitor.
He answered the door expecting only some tradesman’s call, and discovered a short but upstanding young man in a jauntily cocked bowler hat, an extremely neat black jacket, cheerful herring-bone trousers, and a bright bow tie that harmonised beautifully with a blue shirt and collar and matched exactly with the corner of a handkerchief that projected from the breast-pocket. The face was also up-’ standing, so to speak, clean-shaven, with alert brown eyes, a pug nose and a large oblique mouth ready to smile. A pink carnation in his button hole enhanced his cheerfulness. By Edward Albert’s standards this was an excessively well — dressed person. He opened the door wider.
The visitor neighed. He produced a loud clear lingering key. Then he spoke. “Mr Tewler?” he said.
“You want to see me?” said Edward Albert.
“Guessed it in one,” said the visitor. “May I come in?”
Edward Albert stood aside to admit him.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said. “If it’s business —”
He remembered some recent instructions of Evangeline.
“If you ‘appen to have a card. . . . ”
“And why not a card?” said the visitor, “Why not? I think, why — yes” He produced a neat black leather pocket — book adorned with a silver monogram, and extracted a card.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said.
Within a deep black edge it announced its purport:
To introduce Mr Philip Chaser representing Pontifex, Urn and Burke. Funerary Undertakers.
The visitor watched his host’s face for a moment and then gave way to a brief cackle of laughter. “Not on business this time, Edward Albert, not on business. Purely social. It’s the only card I have on me. You see I’m Pip Chaser at your service. Pip, Pip Chaser. I’m, hey, Evangeline’s first cousin by marriage and my wife is her bosom friend. Old schoolfellows. You may have heard her speak of Millie — her dear Millie. Always dear. And her godfather, my revered parent. Nice chap he is — provided you don’t call him Old Gooseberry. We marry from his place. Wedding breakfast and all that. I have to be Best Man. See? Came about the arrangements.”
He removed his hat and revealed an upstanding tussock of hair. He seemed to find some difficulty about placing his hat. He held it in his hand until a suitable place could be found. “You ought to have a hatstand, Edward Albert,” he said. “Hats and umbrellas. There.” He pointed his hat to indicate the exact place. “You must get one and put it there. And now for a talk. Nice little place this looks. Well lit.”
Edward Albert opened the door to the drawing-room.
“Would you like me to make you some tea?” he asked.
“I can.”
“Whisky is, hey, better,” said Mr Chaser.
“I don’t ‘appen to have any whisky.”
“Oh, but you must get a bottle of whisky in the pantry and all that. And cocktail stuff, gin, vermouth, lime juice, the, hey, requisites. What is home without a shaker? Don’t worry about tea. We’ll settle our business and go out for what is called, I believe, a quick one. I should have rung you up this morning, but you’ve got no telephone yet. You must get a telephone. And take my advice, don’t put it out there in the hall for everyone to hear. In a corner near your desk. Bed-room extension perhaps. We’ll fix places for that later. I— hey. I couldn’t come this morning because I had two Blessed Ones to plant out at Woking. I had to get out of my — hey — sables.”
He placed his hat with care and precision exactly in the middle of the table and seated himself gracefully with an arm over the back of his chair. Edward Albert found him admirable. He tried to imitate his ease and left him to open the conversation.
Mr Chaser reflected. Instead of coming to business, he embarked upon a monologue.
“This undertaking business of mine, Edward Albert, is — hey — it isn’t all gloom. Don’t think it. It’s — hey — amusing. Something tonic in putting ’em under and going off yourself. Lot of nonsense talked about grief and lost dear ones and all that. If there hasn’t been a quarrel of some sort, about the will or something, they’re, they’re — hey — just pulling long faces. Pulling ’em, Sir. Because they wouldn’t be there if they weren’t pulled. They’re — hey — survivors again; they’ve got the better of another Departed. I want to go round and slap them on the back and tell ’em to — hey — laugh it off. Sometimes they do. I’ve seen a whole funeral in a fit of giggles. Little dog or something. Our business, of course, is to put a grave face on it; that’s what we’re paid for, so to speak. Put a grave face on it. See?”
“Grave face on it,” said Edward Albert. “Good. Yes, that’s good.”
Mr Pip meditated, neighed at unusual length and went off at a tangent.
“In America, you know, they call undertakers Morticians. Over there they mess about with the body in a way the Christian West Enders we cater for wouldn’t stand for a moment. Not for a moment. They make it up and dress it up and have a sort of lying-instate, when friends call and leave cards. Not our line. It’s done here in London by foreigners of sorts, but not by us. No.”
He paused as though his monologue was running out. He smiled at Edward Albert most engagingly. He admitted he didn’t know why he was talking of funerals. He could tell Edward Albert stories by the hour, but what they had to talk about was something more serious. If ever he wrote a book, he said, and he’d often thought of writing a book, he’d do one called The Hearse with the Silver Lining. Only it might interfere with business. . . .
“It might do that,” said Edward Albert judicially.
“Well, we’ve business on hand and we have to come to it.”
What was he going to say now? “Yeers,” said Edward Albert guardedly, and sat up.
“A wedding, a wedding — key — is something really serious. Serious. It just starts a lot of things and a funeral ends everything. It goes on. And on — key. Now my cousin by marriage, Evangeline, says you’re a fatherless orphan, so to speak. You haven’t been anywhere and done anything yet. World is all before you. All sorts of matters, great and small, you’ve got to be put wise about. That’s where this Best Man comes in. I don’t mind telling you that, for many reasons, you’re lucky to have me as your Best Man. I— hey — happen to be one of the best Best Men in London. Expert at it. I’ve — hey — guided scores &............