The Saki Megapack. Saki

worrying about is who on earth am I? I haven’t the faintest notion?”

      “You are Lady Drakmanton,” exclaimed the three sisters in chorus.

      “Now, don’t make fun of me,” she replied, crossly, “I happen to know her quite well by sight, and she isn’t a bit like me. And it’s an odd thing you should have mentioned her, for it so happens she’s just come into the room. That lady in black, with the yellow plume in her hat, there over by the door.”

      The Smithly-Dubbs looked in the indicated direction, and the uneasiness in their eyes deepened into horror. In outward appearance the lady who had just entered the room certainly came rather nearer to their recollection of their Member’s wife than the individual who was sitting at table with them.

      “Who are you, then, if that is Lady Drakmanton?” they asked in panic-stricken bewilderment.

      “That is just what I don’t know,” was the answer; “and you don’t seem to know much better than I do.”

      “You came up to us in the club—”

      “In what club?”

      “The New Didactic, in Calais Street.”

      “The New Didactic!” exclaimed Lady Drakmanton with an air of returning illumination; “thank you so much. Of course, I remember now who I am. I’m Ellen Niggle, of the Ladies’ Brasspolishing Guild. The Club employs me to come now and then and see to the polishing of the brass fittings. That’s how I came to know Lady Drakmanton by sight; she’s very often in the Club. And you are the ladies who so kindly asked me out to lunch. Funny how it should all have slipped my memory, all of a sudden. The unaccustomed good food and wine must have been too much for me; for the moment I really couldn’t call to mind who I was. Good gracious,” she broke off suddenly, “it’s ten past two; I should be at a polishing job in Whitehall. I must scuttle off like a giddy rabbit. Thanking you ever so.”

      She left the room with a scuttle sufficiently suggestive of the animal she had mentioned, but the giddiness was all on the side of her involuntary hostesses. The restaurant seemed to be spinning round them; and the bill when it appeared did nothing to restore their composure. They were as nearly in tears as it is permissible to be during the luncheon hour in a really good restaurant. Financially speaking, they were well able to afford the luxury of an elaborate lunch, but their ideas on the subject of entertaining differed very sharply, according to the circumstances of whether they were dispensing or receiving hospitality. To have fed themselves liberally at their own expense was, perhaps, an extravagance to be deplored, but, at any rate, they had had something for their money; to have drawn an unknown and socially unremunerative Ellen Niggle into the net of their hospitality was a catastrophe that they could not contemplate with any degree of calmness.

      The Smithly-Dubbs never quite recovered from their unnerving experience. They have given up politics and taken to doing good.

      A BREAD AND BUTTER MISS

      “Starling Chatter and Oakhill have both dropped back in the betting,” said Bertie van Tahn, throwing the morning paper across the breakfast table.

      “That leaves Nursery Tea practically favourite,” said Odo Finsberry.

      “Nursery Tea and Pipeclay are at the top of the betting at present,” said Bertie, “but that French horse, Le Five O’Clock, seems to be fancied as much as anything. Then there is Whitebait, and the Polish horse with a name like some one trying to stifle a sneeze in church; they both seem to have a lot of support.”

      “It’s the most open Derby there’s been for years,” said Odo.

      “It’s simply no good trying to pick the winner on form,” said Bertie; “one must just trust to luck and inspiration.”

      “The question is whether to trust to one’s own inspiration, or somebody else’s. Sporting Swank gives Count Palatine to win, and Le Five O’Clock for a place.”

      “Count Palatine—that adds another to our list of perplexities. Good morning, Sir Lulworth; have you a fancy for the Derby by any chance?”

      “I don’t usually take much interest in turf matters,” said Sir Lulworth, who had just made his appearance, “but I always like to have a bet on the Guineas and the Derby. This year, I confess, it’s rather difficult to pick out anything that seems markedly better than anything else. What do you think of Snow Bunting?”

      “Snow Bunting?” said Odo, with a groan, “there’s another of them. Surely, Snow Bunting has no earthly chance?”

      “My housekeeper’s nephew, who is a shoeing-smith in the mounted section of the Church Lads’ Brigade, and an authority on horseflesh, expects him to be among the first three.”

      “The nephews of housekeepers are invariably optimists,” said Bertie; “it’s a kind of natural reaction against the professional pessimism of their aunts.”

      “We don’t seem to get much further in our search for the probable winner,” said Mrs. de Claux; “the more I listen to you experts the more hopelessly befogged I get.”

      “It’s all very well to blame us,” said Bertie to his hostess; “you haven’t produced anything in the way of an inspiration.”

      “My inspiration consisted in asking you down for Derby week,” retorted Mrs. de Claux; “I thought you and Odo between you might throw some light on the question of the moment.”

      Further recriminations were cut short by the arrival of Lola Pevensey, who floated into the room with an air of gracious apology.

      “So sorry to be so late,” she observed, making a rapid tour of inspection of the breakfast dishes.

      “Did you have a good night?” asked her hostess with perfunctory solicitude.

      “Quite, thank you,” said Lola; “I dreamt a most remarkable dream.”

      A flutter, indicative of general boredom; went round the table. Other people’s dreams are about as universally interesting as accounts of other people’s gardens, or chickens, or children.

      “I dreamt about the winner of the Derby,” said Lola.

      A swift reaction of attentive interest set in.

      “Do tell us what you dreamt,” came in a chorus.

      “The really remarkable thing about it is that I’ve dreamt it two nights running,” said Lola, finally deciding between the allurements of sausages and kedgeree; “that is why I thought it worth mentioning. You know, when I dream things two or three nights in succession, it always means something; I have special powers in that way. For instance, I once dreamed three times that a winged lion was flying through the sky and one of his wings dropped off, and he came to the ground with a crash; just afterwards the Campanile at Venice fell down. The winged lion is the symbol of Venice, you know,” she added for the enlightenment of those who might not be versed in Italian heraldry. “Then,” she continued, “just before the murder of the King and Queen of Servia I had a vivid dream of two crowned figures walking into a slaughter-house by the banks of a big river, which I took to be the Danube; and only the other day—”

      “Do tell us what you’ve dreamt about the Derby,” interrupted Odo impatiently.

      “Well, I saw the finish of the race as clearly as anything; and one horse won easily, almost in a canter, and everybody cried out ‘Bread and Butter wins! Good old Bread and Butter.’ I heard the name distinctly, and I’ve had the same dream two nights running.”

      “Bread and Butter,” said Mrs. de Claux, “now, whatever horse can that point to? Why—of course; Nursery Tea!”

      She looked round with the triumphant smile of a successful unraveller of mystery.

      “How about Le Five O’Clock?” interposed Sir Lulworth.

      “It would fit either of them equally well,” said Odo; “can you remember any details about the jockey’s colours?