The Idiot at Home Part 11

"I suppose a promise to read a paper on Balzac," put in the Idiot, "is something like a three-months' note. It's easy to promise to pay, with three months in which to prepare, but you've got to keep track of the date and meet the obligation when it falls due. As for me, I'd rather meet the note."

"That is about it," said Mrs. Idiot. "If a woman goes into society properly she's got to make a business of it. For instance, there are about ten dances given at the club here every year. Polly is patroness for every one of 'em. There are twenty-five teas during the spring and summer months. Polly a.s.sists at half of them, and gives a fifth of them. She's president of the King's Daughters, corresponding secretary of the Dorcas, treasurer of the Red Cross Society, and goodness knows what all!"

"I can quite understand why she needs to keep accounts--social accounts," said the Idiot. "But it's rather queer, don't you think, that she has the children on her books? The idea of saying that Jimmie and Gladys can't come to Mollie's party because Mollie hasn't been down there--why, it's nonsense!"

"No," said Mrs. Idiot, "it is merely logical. Whatever Polly Dawkins does she tries to do thoroughly. I've no doubt she'll do Balzac up completely. If she keeps social books showing call balances in her favor or against herself she might as well go the whole thing and write the children in--only she's made a mistake, as far as we are concerned, unless she means to write us off without squaring up."

"You talk like a financier," said the Idiot, admiringly. "What do you know about writing off?"

"I used to help my father with his accounts, occasionally," said Mrs.

Idiot. "Polly Dawkins's books ought to show a balance of one call in our favor. That's really the reason I'm not willing to call there to-night. She's so queer about it all, and, as a matter of fact, she owes me a call. I'm not going to overwhelm her with an added obligation."

"Ho!" smiled the Idiot. "You keep books yourself, eh?"

"I keep score," said Mrs. Idiot. "I learned that playing golf."

"It's a bad thing to keep score in golf," said the Idiot.

"So they say, but I find it amusing," she replied.

"And how many calls does Mrs. Wilkins owe you?" demanded the Idiot.

"I don't know," returned the wife. "And I don't care. When I want to see Mrs. Wilkins I call on her whether she owes me a call or not, but with Polly Dawkins it's different. She began the book-keeping, and as long as she likes it I must try to live up to her ideas. If social intercourse develops into a business, business requirements must be observed."

"It's a good idea in a way," said the Idiot, reflectively. "But if you make a business of society, why don't you carry it to a logical conclusion? Balance your books, if you mean business, every month, and send your debtors a statement of their account."

"Well, I will if you wish me to," said Mrs. Idiot. "Suppose they don't pay?"

"Dun 'em," said the Idiot. And then the matter dropped.

On the fifth of the following month Mr. and Mrs. Idiot were seated comfortably in their library. The children had gone to bed, and they were enjoying the bliss of a quiet evening at home, when the door-bell rang, and in a moment or two the maid ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dawkins, preceded, of course, by their cards. The young householders were delighted, and Polly Dawkins was never more charming. She looked well, and she talked well, and there was not a symptom of any diminution of the old-time friendship perceptible--only she did appear to be tired and care-worn.

The evening wore away pleasantly. The chat reverted to old times, and by degrees Mrs. Dawkins seemed to grow less tired.

About ten o'clock the Idiot invited his neighbor to adjourn to the smoking-room, where they each lit a cigar and indulged in a companionable gla.s.s.

"Idiot," said Dawkins, when his wife called out to him that it was time to go home, "your wife is a wonder. I've been trying for three months to make Polly come up here and she wouldn't. Keeps books, you know--now.

Has to--so much to do. Thought you owed us a call, but received your bill Wednesday--looked it up--questioned servants--found you were right."

"Bill," cried the Idiot. "What bill?"

"Why, the one Mrs. Idiot sent--this," said Dawkins, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Confoundedly good joke."

The Idiot took up the piece of paper. It was type-written--on Tommy's machine--and read as follows:

November 1 1898 MR. AND MRS. RICHARD DAWKINS _To Mr. and Mrs. Idiot Dr._

September 20 Evening call 1 Account overdue.

Please remit.

"Great Scott!" laughed the Idiot.

"My dear," said the Idiot after the Dawkinses had gone, "that bill of yours was a great idea."

"It wasn't my idea at all--it was yours," said Mrs. Idiot, laughing.

"You said we ought to be business-like to the last and send out a statement on the first of the month. I sent it. And they paid up."

"Richard," said Mrs. Dawkins, as they drove home, "did you get a receipt?"

X

AS TO SANTA CLAUS

"I am very glad I didn't take Tommy and Mollie to church with me this morning," said Mrs. Idiot, on her return from service. "It would have broken their hearts to have heard the sermon. I don't know what gets into Dr. Preachly sometimes. He gave us a blast about Santa Claus."

"A blast about Santa Claus, eh!" said the Idiot. "And how did he blast the good old saint?"

"He said he was a lie," rejoined Mrs. Idiot, indignantly, "and that it was the duty of every Christian in the land to see that the lie was exposed."

"Great heavens!" cried the Idiot, in astonishment. "Doesn't Dr. Preachly believe in Santa Claus? Poor old Preachly! How much he has lost! Did he say anything about Hop o' My Thumb and Cinderella?"

"No, of course not. Why should he?" returned Mrs. Idiot.

"Oh, because; I suppose that a man who doesn't believe in Santa Claus is a skeptic on the subject of Hop o' My Thumb, and Rumpelstiltzken, and Cinderella, and Jack the Giant-Killer, and all the rest of that n.o.ble army of childhood friends," explained the Idiot.

"He didn't mention them," said Mrs. Idiot. "He--"

"He's going to preach a series of sermons on lies, I presume," said the Idiot. "He's tackled Santa Claus first, as being the most seasonable of the lot, eh? Jack the Giant-Killer ought to be a good subject for a ministerial attack."

"Well, he pulled poor old Santa Claus to pieces," said Mrs. Idiot, with a sigh.

"Why didn't you bring me a piece of him as a souvenir?" demanded the Idiot. "Just a lock of his hair for my collection of curios? What was done with the remains?"

Mrs. Idiot laughed as she pulled over her gloves and smoothed them upon her lap.

"There weren't any remains," she answered. "When Dr. Preachly got through with him there wasn't a vestige of the old chap left. To begin with, he was a lie, the doctor said. Then he went on and showed that he was a wickedly partial old fellow--a very sn.o.b, he called him--because he gives fine things to the children of the rich and little or nothing to the children of the poor. He filled the little folk with hope and brought them disappointment, and so on. It was a powerful sermon, although I wanted to weep over it."

"Go ahead and weep," said the Idiot; "it's the appropriate thing to do.

I don't wonder you wanted to cry; you've always liked Dr. Preachly."

"Of course," said Mrs. Idiot.

"And you hate to see him make a--ah--a--well, you know--of himself in the pulpit; and I quite agree with you. I rather like Preachly myself.

It is too bad to see a well-meaning man like that batting his brains out against the rock of Gibraltar, whether suicide is sin or not. What has put him in this despondent mood? Do you suppose he has heard?"