. . let me see . . . HARRISON . . .”

I smiled—suddenly and rather incomprehensibly at ease with her.  “You’re trying to recall a Harrison who’s written something, married somebody, or been somewhere,” I said.  “But it’s a waste of time—I’m not THAT Harrison, even if he exists.  I’m just—if I call myself anything—a journalist.”

“Oh . . . then you must come again when we have really LITERARY parties,” she replied, with an eagerness I thought charming though probably insincere.  I promised I would, with equal eagerness, and every intention of avoiding her really LITERARY parties like the plague.  Then I shook hands, left the house, and on the bus back to Fleet Street suddenly realized that it had been a very good lunch from one point of view.  I had never tasted better eggs Mornay.

 

 

The next afternoon Rainier telephoned, profuse in apologies for his absence from the lunch, and though the matter could hardly have been important to him, I thought I detected a note of sincerity.  “I gather you didn’t have a very good time,” he said, and before I could reply went on:  “I’m not keen on the mob, either, but Helen’s a born hostess—almost as good as an American—she can take in twenty new names all in a row and never make a mistake.”

“She didn’t take in mine.  In fact it was pretty clear she didn’t know me from Adam.”

“My fault, I expect.  Must have forgotten to tell her.”

“So a perfect stranger could walk into your house and get a free lunch?”

“They’re doing that all the time—though most of ‘em have invitations. . . .  Look here, if you’re not busy just now, why not come over to the House for tea?”

I said I would, and took the bus again to Chelsea.  But at Kenmore the maid told me that Rainier hadn’t been in since morning and never by any chance took tea at home; and just then, while we were arguing on the doorstep (I insisting I had been invited less than twenty minutes ago), Mrs. Rainier came up behind me and began to laugh.  “He meant the House of Commons,” she said, passing into the hall.  “You’d better let my car take you there.”

Extraordinary how stupid one can be when one would prefer to impress by being knowledgeable.  I knew quite well that the House of Commons, along with the Stock Exchange and Christ Church, Oxford, was called “the House,” yet somehow, when Rainier had used the phrase over the telephone, I could only think of Kenmore.  Most of the way to Westminster in the almost aggressively unostentatious Daimler (so impersonal you could believe it part of an undertaker’s fleet), I cursed my mistake as a poor recommendation for any kind of job.  I had feared Rainier might be waiting for me, and was relieved when, after sending in my name, I had to kill time for half an hour before a policeman led me through devious passages to the Terrace, where Rainier greeted me warmly.  But his appearance was slightly disconcerting; there was a twitch about his mouth and eyes as he spoke, and a general impression of intense nervous energy in desperate need of relaxation.  During tea he talked about his South American trip, assuming far too modestly that I had read nothing about it in the papers.  Presently the division bell rang and only as we hurried across the Smoking Room did he broach the matter I had really come about.  “I inquired from a good many people after I got your letter, Harrison, but there doesn’t seem to be a thing doing in Fleet Street just now.”

“That was my own experience too.”

“So I wondered if you’d care for a secretary’s job until something else turns up?”

I hadn’t really thought about such a thing, and maybe hesitation revealed my disappointment.

He said, patting my arm:  “Well, think it over, anyway.  I’ve had a girl up to now, but she’s due to get married in a few weeks—time enough to show you the ropes . . . that is, of course, if you feel you’d like the job at all. . . .”

 

                    *    *    *    *    *

 

So I became Rainier’s secretary, and Miss Hobbs showed me the ropes.  It had been flattery to call her a girl.  She was thin, red-faced, middle-aged, and so worshipful of Rainier that no husband could hope to get more than a remnant of any emotion she was capable of; indeed, I felt that the chance of marriage was tempting her more because she feared it might be her last than because she was certain she wanted it.  She hinted this much during our first meeting.  “I almost feel I’m deserting HIM,” she said, and the stress on “him” was revealing.  Presently, showing me how she filed his correspondence, she added:  “I’m so relieved he isn’t going to have another LADY secretary.  I’d be afraid of some awful kind of person coming here and—perhaps—INFLUENCING him.”

I said I didn’t imagine Rainier was the type to be influenced by that kind of woman.

“Oh, but you never know what kind of a woman will influence a man.”

We went on inspecting the filing system.  “The main thing is to see he doesn’t forget his appointments.  He doesn’t do much of his correspondence here—he has another secretary at his City office.  So it won’t matter a great deal if you don’t know shorthand and typewriting.”

I said I did know shorthand and typewriting.

“Well, so much the better, of course.  You’ll find him wonderful to work with—at least I always have, though of course we’re more like old friends than employer and secretary.  I call him Charles, you know, when we’re alone together.  And he always calls me Elsie, whether we’re alone or not.  We’ve been together now for nearly fifteen years, so it’s really quite natural, don’t you think?”

During the next few hours she gave me her own version of the entire Rainier ménage.  “Of course the marriage never has been all it should be—I daresay you can imagine that.  Mrs. Rainier isn’t the right kind of wife for a man like Charles.  He’s so tired of all those parties she gives, especially the house-parties at Stourton— that’s their big place in the country, you know . . . they have no children—that’s another thing, because he’d love children, and I don’t know why they don’t have them, maybe there’s a reason.  When you’ve worked with him for a time you’ll feel how restless he is—I do blame her for THAT—she doesn’t give him a proper home—

Kenmore’s just a hotel with different guests every day.  I do believe there’s only one room he feels really comfortable in, and that’s this one—with his poor little secretary slaving away while he smokes—and he shouldn’t smoke either, so he’s been told. . . .  D’you know, he often locks himself in when he wants to work, because the rest of the house is so full of Goyas and Epsteins and what not that people wander in and out of all the rooms as if it were a museum.  Of course there really are priceless things in it— why not?--he gives her the money to spend, and I suppose she has taste—that is if you LIKE a house that’s like a museum.  I sometimes wonder if Charles does.”

After a pause during which I made no comment she turned to the writing-desk.  “Charles gets hundreds of letters from complete strangers—about one thing and another, you know.  If they’re abusive we take no notice—in fact, whatever they are, HE doesn’t bother much about them, but I’ll let you into a secret—something he doesn’t suspect and never will unless you tell him, and I’m sure you won’t—I always write a little note of thanks to anyone who sends a NICE letter . . .