The Old Maids' Club. Israel Zangwill

       As cheerfully as I could I cut short his sibilations. "Oh, that's all right, then," I said. "Then I may put you down for a couple of items."

      He shook his head, and held up his hands deprecatingly.

      "Anything but that!" he stammered; "Make me a patron, a committee-man, anything! I do not sing in public."

      While he was saying this I thought long and deeply. The affliction was after all less terrible than I had a right to expect, and I knew from the advertisement columns that it was easily curable. Demosthenes, I remembered, had stoned it to death. I felt my love reviving, as I looked into his troubled face, instinct with the double aristocracy of rank and genius. At the worst the singing Voice was unaffected by the disability, and as for the conversational, well there was consolation in the prospect of having the last word while one's husband was still having the first. En attendant, I could have wished him to sing his replies instead of speaking them, for not only should I thus enjoy his Voice but the interchange of ideas would proceed less tardily. However that would have made him into an operatic personage, and I did not want him to look so ridiculous as all that.

      It would be tedious to recount our interview at the length it extended to. Suffice it to say that I gained my point. Without letting out that I knew of his theories of art for art's sake, I yet artfully pleaded that whatever one's views, charity alters cases, inverts everything, justifies anything. "For instance," I said with charming naïveté, "I would not have dared to call on you but in its sacred name." He agreed to sing two songs—nay, two of his own songs. I was to write to him particulars of time and place. He saw me to the door. I held out my hand and he took it, and we looked at each other, smiling brightly.

       "B-but I d-d-d-don't know your n-n-name," he said suddenly. "P-p-p-rincess what?"

      He spoke more fluently, now he had regained his composure.

      "Princess," I answered, my eyes gleaming merrily. "That is all. The Honorable Miss Primpole will give me a character, if you require one." He laughed—his laugh was like the Voice—and followed me with his eyes as I glided away.

      I had won my gloves—and in a day. I thought remorsefully of the poor Saga hero destined to wait a week in suspense as to the result. But it was too late to remedy this, and the organization of the Charity Concert needed all my thoughts. I was in for it now, and I resolved to carry it through. But it was not so easy as I had lightly assumed. Getting the artists, of course, was nothing—there are always so many professionals out of work or anxious to be brought out, and so many amateurs in search of amusement. I could have filled the Albert Hall with entertainers. Nor did I anticipate any difficulty in disposing of the tickets. If you are at all popular in society you can get a good deal of unpopularity by forcing them on your friends. No, the real difficulty about this Charity Concert was the discovery of an object in aid of which to give it. In my innocence I had imagined that the world was simply bustling with unexploited opportunities for well-doing. Alas! I soon found that philanthropy was an over-crowded profession. There was not a single nook or corner of the universe but had been ransacked by these restless free-lances; not a gap, not a cranny but had been filled up. In vain I explored the map, in the hopes of lighting on some undiscovered hunting-ground in far Cathay or where the khamsin sweeps the Afric deserts. I found that the wants of the most benighted savages were carefully attended to, and that, even when they had none, they were thoughtfully supplied with them. Anxiously I scanned the newspapers in search of a calamity, the sufferers by which I might relieve, but only one happened during that week, and that was snatched from between my very fingers by a lady who had just been through the Divorce Court. In my despair I bethought myself of the preacher I sat under. He was a very handsome man, and published his sermons by request.

      I went to him and I said: "How is the church?"

      "It is all right, thank you," he said.

      "Doesn't it want anything done to it?"

      "No, it is in perfect repair. My congregation is so very good."

      I groaned aloud. "But isn't there any improvement that you would like?"

      "The last of the gargoyles was put up last week. Mediæval architecture is always so picturesque. I have had the entire structure made mediæval, you know."

      "But isn't the outside in need of renovation?"

      "What! When I have just had it made mediæval!"

      "But the interior—there must be something defective somewhere!"

      "Not to my knowledge."

      "But think! think!" I cried desperately. "The aisles—transept—nave—lectern—pews—chancel—pulpit—apse—porch—altar-cloths—organ—spires—is there nothing in need of anything?"

      He shook his head.

      "Wouldn't you like a colored window to somebody?"

      "All the windows are taken up. My congregation is so very good."

      "A memorial brass then?"

      He mused.

      "There is only one of my flock who has done anything memorable lately."

       My heart gave a great leap of joy. "Then why do you neglect him?" I asked indignantly. "If we do not perpetuate the memory of virtue——"

      "He's alive," he interrupted.

      I bit my lips in vexation.

      "I think you need a few more choristers," I murmured.

      "Oh no, we are sending some away."

      "The Sunday School Fund—how is that?"

      "I am looking about for a good investment for the surplus. Do you know of any? A good mortgage, perhaps?"

      "Is there none on the church?" I cried with a flicker of hope.

      "Heaven forbid!"

      I cudgelled my brains frantically.

      "What do you think of a lightning-rod!"

      "A premier necessity. I never preach in a building unprotected by one."

      I made one last wild search.

      "How about a reredos?"

      He looked at me in awful, pained silence.

      I saw I had stumbled. "I—I mean a new wing," I stammered.

      "I am afraid you are not well this morning," said the preacher, patting my hand soothingly. "Won't you come and talk it over, whatever it is, another time?"

      "No, no," I cried excitedly. "It must be settled at once. I have it. A new peal of bells!"

      "What is the matter with the bells?" he asked anxiously. "There isn't a single one cracked."

      I saw his dubiety, and profited by it. I learnt afterwards it was due to his having no ear of his own.

      "Cracked! Perhaps not," I replied in contemptuous accents. "But they deserve to be. No wonder the newspapers keep correspondences going on the subject."

       "Yes, but what correspondents object to is the bells ringing at all."

      "I don't wonder," I said. "I don't say your bells are worse than the majority, or that I haven't got a specially sensitive ear for music, but I know that when I hear their harsh clanging, I—well I don't feel inclined to go to church and that's the truth. I am quite sure if you had a really musical set of chimes, it would increase the spirituality of the neighborhood."

      "How so?" he asked sceptically.

      "It would keep down swearing on Sunday."

      "Oh!" He pondered a moment, then said: "But that would be a great expense."

      "Indeed? I thought bells were cheap."

      "Certainly. Area bells, hand-bells, sleigh-bells. But Church-bells are very costly. There are only a few foundries in the kingdom. But why are you so concerned