The Complete Works. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
at the dinner table, and was prolonged by Mrs Phipson, who taunted her husband with his disregard of her warning not to pay five hundred pounds for what she termed a pig in a poke. She was a talkative woman, shallow, jolly, and unscrupulous, with a shrewd and selfish side to her character which indulgent people never saw. Mary saw it clearly; and as, to her taste, Mrs Phipson was vulgar, she was not very fond of her, and often felt indignant at her ridicule of her husband’s boastful but sincere love of music. On this occasion, seeing that Mr Phipson was getting sulky, and that his wife was perversely minded to make him worse, she left the table quietly without waiting for her hostess, and went upstairs alone to the drawingroom. There, to her surprise, she found a strange man, lounging on a sofa with an album in his hands.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mary, retreating.
“Not at all,” said the man, rising in disorder. “I hope I’m not in the way. Miss Sutherland, perhaps.”
“Yes,” said Mary coldly; for she could not see him distinctly, and his manner of addressing her, though a little confused, struck her as being too familiar.
“Very happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Sutherland. Nanny wrote me word that you were staying here. I recognize you by your photograph too. I hope I don’t disturb you.” He added this doubtfully, her attitude being still anything but reassuring.
“Not at all,” said Mary, taking the nearest seat, which happened to be a piece of furniture shaped like the letter S, with a seat in each loop, so that the occupants, placed opposite one another, could converse at their ease across the rail. She then settled her glasses deliberately upon her nose and looked at him with a certain hardihood of manner which came to her whenever she was seized with nervousness, and was determined not to give way to it. He was a tall, jovial looking man, not yet quite middleaged, stout, or florid, but, as she judged, within five years of being all three. He had sandy hair and a red beard, cleft into two long whiskers of the shape formerly known to fashion as “weepers.” His expression was goodnatured and, at this moment, conciliatory, as though he wished to disarm any further stiffness on her part. But she thought she saw also saw admiration in his eyes and she continued to gaze at him inflexibly. He looked wistfully at the conversation chair but sat down on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“This is a very convenient neighborhood, isn’t it?” he said.
“Very.”’
“Yes. T am sure you must find it so. You are within easy distance of both the parks, and all the theatres. Kensington is too far out of the way for my fancy. How long does it take to go from here to Covent Garden Market now, for instance?”
“I am sorry I cannot tell you,” said Mary calmly, looking at him with unflinching eyes: “I never go there.”
“Indeed! I wonder at that. You can get tremendous bargains in flowers, I believe, if you go there early in the morning. Do you like flowers?”
“I do not share the fashionable mania for cut flowers. I like gardening.”
“I quite agree with you, Miss Sutherland. I often think, when I see every little vase or knick-knack in a room stuffed with tulips and lilies and things, what a want of real taste it shews. I was looking at that beautiful painting over the music stand just before you came in. May I ask is it one of yours?”
“Yes. If you look closely at it you will see my name written in large vermilion letters in the left hand corner.”
I saw it. That’s how I knew it to be yours. It’s a capital picture: I often regret that I never learned to paint, though I know I should never have done it half as well as you. It’s a very nice occupation for a lady. It is mere child’s play to you, I suppose.”
“I have given it up because I find it too difficult.”
“But nobody could do it better than you. However, it runs away with your time, no doubt. Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t give it up altogether.”
“You are fond of pictures, I presume.”
“Yes. I have a great taste for them. I go to the National Gallery whenever I come to London, to have a look at Landseer’s pictures. I sometimes see young ladies copying the pictures there. Did you ever copy one of Landseer’s?”
“No. Strange as it may appear to you, there are some pictures there which I prefer to Landseer’s.”
“You understand the old masters, you see. I don’t, unfortunately. I should like to be able to talk to you about them; but if I tried it on, you would find out in no time that I know nothing about it. Put me into a gallery, and I can tell you what pictures I like: that’s about as far as I can go.”
“I wish I could go as far.”
“I am afraid you are chaffing me, Miss Sutherland.”
Mary did not condescend to reply. The strange man, now somewhat discomfited, rose and stood with his back to the fireplace, as if to warm himself at the Japanese umbrella that protruded from it.
“Beautiful weather,” he said after a pause.
“Very beautiful indeed.” she replied, gravely. Then, to prevent herself from laughing at him, “Have you been long in London?”
“Arrived yesterday.” he said, brightening. “I came straight from New York via Liverpool. I’m always traveling. Have you ever been to the States?”
“No.”
You should go there and see what real life is. We’re all asleep here. I only left England last March; and I’ve started six branches of our company since that, besides obtaining judgment against two scoundrels who infringed our patent. Quick work, that.”
“Is it?”
“I should think so. It would have taken two years to do here. More: five years perhaps. The Americans can’t resist a new thing as we do. But no matter, unless they look alive here, they will be driven out of the market by foreign manufacturers using our cheap power.”
“Your cheap power! What is that?”
“I thought you knew. Why, the Conolly electro-motor, which will drive any machinery at half — aye, at a quarter of the cost of steam. You have heard of it, of course.”
“I think so. I have met Mr. Conolly. He does not seem like a man who could do anything badly.”
“Badly! I should think not. He’s an amazing man. They talk of Seth Jones’s motor; and Van Print claims to be the original inventor of Conolly’s commutator. But they are a couple of thieves. I can shew you the report of Conolly versus the Pacific—”
“Johnny!” exclaimed Mrs. Phipson, entering. “I thought it was your voice.”
“How d’ye do, Nan?” said he. “How are the bairns?”
“Oh, we’re all first rate. Have you been here long?”
“It seems only half a minute, Miss Sutherland has been entertaining me so pleasantly.” And he winked and frowned at Mrs Phipson, to intimate that he desired to be introduced.
“Then you know each other already,” she said. “This is my brother, Mr Hoskyn. I hope you have not been bothering Mary with your electro business.”
“Mr Hoskyn was giving me a most interesting account of it when you came in,” said Mary.
“You can finish it some other time,” said Mrs Phipson. “Inflict it on the next person who has the misfortune to get shut into a railway carriage with you. When did you come back?”
Mr Hoskyn glanced apprehensively at Mary, and did not seem to like his sister’s remark, though he laughed goodhumoredly at it. The conversation then turned upon his recent movements; the length of time he expected to remain in London; and so forth.
Mary gathered that he had invested money in the Conolly Electro-Motor Company, and that he occupied himself in traveling to countries where the electro-motor was yet